


out of the blue corner

by fallingaway



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingaway/pseuds/fallingaway
Summary: Louis is a boxer banned because of doping. Harry is a journalist following the story.* * *"It seemed like a normal morning, but he had a feeling it was the quiet before the storm. And by storm, he meant getting involved in Louis Tomlinson’s life."





	1. Chapter 1

It was a Tuesday when all hell broke loose.

Harry was working on an article about the most recent discovery of ancient sculptures located in Machu Picchu and struggling to understand the documents in Spanish, having to stop every three minutes to check a word on the dictionary. But the will to figure out how that discovery could shed some light on the Inca’s way of living made him persevere. Well, that and his deadline closing in two and a half hours.

He managed to stay fairly focused until the aforementioned hell broke loose. The first indicator was Callahan’s mobile ringing, and when he picked it up the only words he uttered was _bloody hell_ before turning on one of the televisions and changing the channel from the CNN to Sky Sports.

And there it was – **BREAKING: LOUIS “THE TOMMO” TOMLINSON BANNED FOR A YEAR**.

Everybody stopped what they were doing to face the screen. Callahan’s face was turning to an interesting shade of red while he gripped the phone so hard it could snap. The presenter spoke very fast as he reported the decision of the British Boxing Board of Control to ban Tomlinson from competing due to the discovery of illegal substances in his bloodstream during his last match, three weeks before.

He hadn’t even won it. It had been his first attempt to become the WBO Lightweight Champion, but Timothy Lyndon, the undefeated champion, managed to retain the title. The screen showed a succession of Tomlinson’s pictures, one in the ring, another outside a nightclub surrounded by good-looking lads, and a third one of his bloody face after losing a fight for the first time.

The presenter cut to a live reporter who was at the Board’s press conference, which looked more like a circus. Harry felt a shiver go through his spine, feeling glad that he was safe and sound at the newsroom instead of in the lion’s den.

“People love to say that Tomlinson is the one who made boxing sexy again,” the reporter was saying, “as sexy as bleeding out of your nose can be. But it’s certainly a tough blow for fans of the sport and otherwise, as Tommo is probably one of the most recognisable faces in England at the moment, known not only for his sport endeavors, but also for his charity work and–”

“Is Niall there?” Jesy was the first one to break the silence, making Harry look away from the television.

“Outside the room,” Callahan replied.

He remembered then that Niall had mentioned something about that press conference while they were getting a pint together the night before. “I can’t wait for this nonsense to be over, man. There’s no way Louis would get mixed up with this doping shite,” his tipsy friend decided. Niall was very enthusiastic about sports in general, golf in particular. Harry couldn’t care less, but was still a bit sad that things didn’t turn out as Niall expected.

“Ok folks, let’s get into this,” Callahan said as the BBC started reporting the news as well. They were still working on a new model of updating their website with breaking news instead of only posting longer, more crafted articles. “Horan says he’s trying to get a statement from his publicist,” he updated, frantically scrolling down on his mobile. “Jesy, try reaching that new manager, what’s-his-name. Jade, go after Phillip, he always knows somebody who knows somebody and could get us through. Perrie, I want an article out in fifteen minutes, and don’t forget to include some background about doping in the sport.”

The girls changed swiftly to their new designated tasks, and Harry looked at them with wonder because he could barely understand a word of what Callahan said. He was just glad to be out of it.

“How about us, Finn?” Leigh-Anne asked, gesturing at her and Harry. “Do we keep up with the regular schedule?”

Callahan nodded. “If we need more hands, I’ll let you know,” then he was off to his office with five mobiles on his hands.

Leigh-Anne sighed with relief and Harry was happy not to be the only lost one. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered to her while his other colleagues were furiously typing into their laptops, dialing on their phones or both.

She shrugged. “I reckon everybody is going through a heartbreak? His face is everywhere.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I don’t really get the commotion.”

“He’s in that perfume ad now, haven’t you seen it? The one where he dances a bit of Take That? Doing like–” she tried to imitate the movement, but just got a puzzled look from Harry.

“I don’t really… know what you’re talking about.”

Leigh-Anne rolled her eyes at him and waved a dismissive hand as if he was a lost cause. Maybe he was, because even though he was aware of Tomlinson’s existence, he didn’t know what was so relevant about him. Athletes got caught doping every other day, like the entire athlete population of Russia was being accused of doing it.

A picture of Tomlinson was now plastered on both screens, pictures in which he was neither bloody nor drunk, and maybe Harry got it a little bit. He had to admit that it _was_ a face worth being showed around. In that picture, Tomlinson looked more like a movie star than a boxer, with his deep blue eyes and boyish features, with no signs of fighting besides a crooked nose and some healing bruises.

Leigh-Anne soon resumed what she was doing before the news broke, writing a piece about the self-called Nuit Debout, the French movement that was opposing to a reform on labor laws. Her scope was on the economic impact on the youth if the laws were approved and how it added uncertainty to the already shaken European Union. It was a very interesting work, as Harry found out when he helped with some interviews and research the week before.

Trying to follow his colleague’s example, he opened once again the file he had been working on. A picture of an Inca antique stared at him, with beautiful drawings telling still unknown stories. He tried to remember where he stopped. Was it reporting the interview with Peru’s leading expert on Machu Picchu? Or the files describing–

 _Well_ , he thought, deciding that honesty was the best policy, _fuck it_. The sculptures had waited some hundred years to be discovered, they could handle waiting a few more minutes to be reported about. Minimizing the screen with his article, he opened the browser and typed _louis tomlinson_ into Google.

The first results were about the breaking news of his ban, then Tomlinson’s Wikipedia page and finally his exclusive coming-out interview on Attitude, last September. The article’s publication had been the first time Harry paid attention to Tomlinson, and he remembered finding it awesome that more sportsmen were opening up about their sexuality, but it was also around the time he started dating Alain and didn’t have much time for anything besides work and his new boyfriend.

But now Alain was out of the picture, and he definitely had plenty of interest in figuring out more about Tomlinson.

**_Knocking prejudice out: LOUIS “THE TOMMO” TOMLINSON exclusive coming-out interview_ **

_Born and raised in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, Louis says he has always been a fighter. Raised in a working-class neighborhood with four siblings, he had a tough but happy childhood. A football fan, he dreamed about being a professional footballer until he was 16, when he got involved with boxing._

_Almost ten years later, Louis is constantly ranked as one of Britain’s star athlete because of his skills, his work ethics and charming personality. He had his breakthrough start during the 2012 Summer Olympics at his home country, when he won the gold medal. Starting his professional career later that year, he proceeded to win twenty matches. Now, he says his dream is to become the next WBO Lightweight Champion._

_However, it is not only in the rings that Louis has faced tough adversaries. Since his rise to spotlight, much speculation about his sexuality has surrounded him. From the rumours about him and his close friend, Manchester City forward Julio Calderas, to countless pictures parading around blondes and brunettes, much has been written about Louis’ potential love interests, but little has been said by the man himself._

_Louis has now decided to break his silence after pictures of him getting cozy with a mysterious man in Ibiza have popped up. He exclusively tells ATTITUDE Magazine: “Yes, I’m gay.”_

The interview then started with Tomlinson discussing his decision to come out after much internal and external pressure. “If it’s not easy now, I imagine how it was for Orlando Cruz before me. But I’m honoured to be part of this community, and relived to publicly say that I am, proudly, a gay man,” he declared.

He also discussed his Olympic gold, how proud he had felt for representing his country, and his coming up fight in January, which would be his last win before everything went south. The interviewer asked about football, what kind of man had a chance of winning his heart and what was the real deal between him and Calderas. The official story was that Calderas was one of his “best mates”, but from the pictures Harry could find, it sure looked more than that.

Tomlinson seemed like a nice, down-to-earth bloke. Harry couldn’t imagine him getting involved with doping, but then again, people were always unpredictable and constantly making stupid decisions, especially before their biggest moments. He couldn’t help but feel deeply sorry for the man.

For journalistic reasons, Harry had to through Tomlinson’s half-naked photo shoot at the end of the interview, looking at each picture with a lot of care. The photo shoot was inside a country house, with the pictures looking fairly domestic except for the fact that the boxer was missing at least a piece of clothing in each one. The ones of him lying down on a sofa, wearing nothing but underwear and boxing gloves, were particularly illuminating.

“What are you doing?” that was Perrie behind him.

“Research.”

“Is that what kids are calling it these days?” Perrie said, with not much humour on her voice. She always got annoyed when she had to work under pressure. “Anyway, I need you to proofread the article, is that alright? Jade is obviously busy.”

“Yeah, sure, send it to me.”

He carefully read through it, correcting a few typos and eliminating some adverbs – what was it with journalists and their obsession with adverbs, he would never get. In five minutes, it was published on their website. Fourteen minutes had passed since Niall’s call.

“Boss, it’s on,” Perrie screamed from her desk in the direction of Callahan’s office. He gave her a thumb-up, pressing a mobile between his head and shoulder and holding another on his left hand.

Harry envied Leigh-Anne’s seemingly unaffected behaviour. She’s was typing away on the keyboard and eventually on her mobile while he could barely sit still, observing his frantic colleagues around him. Jesy was now swearing at her bleeping phone, and Jade was furiously scribbling notes down while murmuring _mmm_ into the phone.

To fill up his curiosity, Harry did the only thing he could do – he texted Niall.

_what's going on man?_

_theyre banning louis for 1 yer for doping its a circus here [angry face emoji]_ , Niall quickly replied.

_and why do we care so much?_

_for the love of god harry have you even googled him_

_everything i got is that he’s cute??_

_obvs.,.. he also had 21 wins in a row at 24 and an olympic medal and helps children and smells good and everybody is in love him, harry, thats why we care_. And, before Harry could answer, he added, _gtg mate, think i can get a statement._

Feeling a little less curious with his friend’s input, Harry decided it was time to get back to his Peruvian antiques. _El fascinante descubrimiento va ayudar a…_ he started typing before realising he was writing in Spanish. He took a deep breath, deciding that maybe he should sleep for fifteen hours straight as soon as he got the chance to.

* * *

That Tuesday was one of the rare days when he managed to leave work at a decent time. The sun was still up when he left, followed by Jesy and a distressed Niall, and they decided to grab something to eat before heading home. It mostly consisted of him and Jesy talking about Yves Saint Laurent’s new spring collection while Niall hold a pint and stared at nothing looking sulky.

“Niall, do we need to have an intervention or something?” Jesy eventually asked.

“Sorry?”

“Tomlinson’s going to be ok,” she assured him, and Harry was controlling himself not to laugh.

“But am I, Jesy? Why does everyone I love disappoint me?”

“I don’t disappoint you,” Harry intervened.

“Mate, I’m sorry to say it, but it’s not the same thing,” Niall retorted seeming a bit more alive. He took a long gulp of his pint.

“Now that’s the biggest lie I’ve heard,” Harry said, judgingly nodding his head. “Or were all those promises of eternal love nothing but pretending?”

“Does Lisa know that this is the kind of thing you two do for amusement?” Jesy interjected, looking from Niall to Harry.

“She quiet enjoys it,” Niall replied, shrugging at the look Jesy gave him.

“I think weird threesome fantasy is my cue to go to the loo,” she declared, excusing herself.

“Are you really that sad, though?” Harry insisted, when he was left alone with Niall. He knew how seriously the man took his sports.

“It really hit me hard, mate. I thought Louis was better than that. Have you seen that match he lost? He was on fire, everybody thought he was gonna get the title, that the judges were unfair. But now… it wasn’t even him.”

Harry was glad for a moment that his biggest passions were photography, music and cats. It always surprised him to see grown men moping around because of sports. But, as the good friend he was, he gave Niall a supporting squeeze on the shoulder and offered him a second pint, which was happily accepted.

He felt absolutely wrecked when he arrived at his flat. Olivia, his lovely orange cat, was fast to wrap herself on his leg as soon as he opened the door, meowing a little. He dropped his bag on the floor and stroked her head, then picked her up and nuzzled his nose against her furry little body. She purred and scratched his cheek, in her weird cat-way of showing affection.

“Who’s the cutest kitten in the world?” he said to the cat, and the cat said nothing back. “Are you hungry, baby? You must be.”

Harry filled Olivia’s food and water bowl, and she happily hopped to them. Then he took his work clothes off, putting a worn-out t-shirt on. He stretched a little, feeling his whole body hurt – his head was throbbing, tired from the day’s work, but it’d have to hold on a bit more. He still had to work on a French translation, and maybe record a cover of Simon & Garfunkel’s The Boxer, a wish that may or may not have been motivated by all the Louis Tomlinson talk that day.

As if the Universe was messing with him, his mobile buzzed as soon as he opened his translation file. It was a text from Alain that simply asked _comme ça va._ Harry bit his lip. When was the last time he had promised himself he would never talk to Alain again? It had to be more than three weeks ago… that was a long enough eternity, wasn’t it?

He took a deep breath and a gulp of his strawberry smoothie. Alain wasn’t bringing any extra money in, his translation with the deadline two days from now was. The man could wait.

But five minutes later, the phone buzzed again. _tu me manques_ , it said. I miss you. Harry rolled his eyes. _And I miss not being lied to, you fucker_ , he thought of writing back, but as a civilized man he made do with _it happens x_. Then he turned his mobile off and buried it under the sofa.

He was working on the translation of a guide about the use of a new fertilizer on the cultivation of lilies and daffodils. It was the most incredibly boring thing he had ever worked on, with a bunch of chemical names and floriculture lingo (it was surprising those even existed, let alone _so many_ ), but those cute new YSL boots weren’t going to buy themselves.

Harry managed to stay focused for twelve whole minutes before giving in to the urge of checking his mobile. He picked it up from under the sofa and turned it on again. It buzzed with his new notifications, most of them from the magazine’s twitter feed. He answered some of the readers’ tweet, ignored another text from Alain and opened instagram.

He checked the notifications on the picture of a skyscraper he had posted during his lunch break, stalked a cute boy he didn’t know but who had commented _lovely pic from a lovely lad ;)_ on the picture, and then liked some photos. But the thing his heart really wanted to do, he knew it deep down, was to go through the entirety of Louis Tomlinson’s instagram feed.

1.387 entries, the boxer had. Harry bit his lip. It was almost nine and he _really_ had to finish that bloody translation. The account was not going anywhere. He was a responsible man. He could check it tomorrow—

He followed the account and started scrolling down.

The most recent picture was a black and white shot of two gloves on a table. It was Tomlinson’s apology entry, which he didn’t have the guts to read after hearing enough about the boxer’s misfortunes for the day. Then there was a picture of his match with Lyndon, three weeks before, just after he lost. _Great fight, champ!_ was the caption.

Tomlinson constantly posted pictures and videos of his training, lacking a top in most of them. Then there were some pictures with his friends, of charity events, pictures with other celebrities and very few of his family.

There were also a bunch of promo entries and photo shoots, including a behind-the-scenes picture of his Attitude shoot last year where Tomlinson was giggling on the sofa looking like a happy kitten. From what Harry estimated to be early 2015, Calderas seemed to be in every other picture posted – posts of them playing footie, of Calderas eating a piece of cake, a selfie in what seemed to be a birthday party.

The very first picture was of the boxer on the highest place of the podium back in the 2012 Summer Olympics. Tomlinson looked unbelievably young, sweaty and bruised. How old was he again back then? Barely twenty, wasn’t it? He had the brightest smile on his face, his longish hair damped and sticking to his forehead, and the caption was a simply word, _Strong_. Harry saved it.

More than an hour had passed and he now hated himself for fucking up his sleeping schedule once again. He reopened the French fertilizer file.

* * *

It was 6:54 when his mobile rang the next morning, waking him up with a scare. He blindly reached for it, after taking a moment to process what was happening, and his boss’ name was flashing on the screen. He sat up on the bed, picking up the call and patting a sleepy Olivia, who curled up on his lap.

“Yes?”

“Styles, I need you to be on the Victoria Centre at eight,” Callahan said in a hurry.

“What.”

“Victoria Centre, Styles! The press conference starts at nine. I’ll be there to give you your credential.”

He had no idea what Callahan was talking about. He had not been in a press conference since his days of interning at the Manchester Evening News – the crowded room, the constant yelling and the palpable desperation of the journalists to make the best question were definitely not his thing.

So Callahan was probably drunk or… oh wait. The Tomlinson conference. The conference where Tomlinson would refer to his recent ban. That conference was the only conference that he knew of, and Niall Horan was the one covering it.

“Niall’s covering it,” he replied, with his mind still foggy.

“No, he’s not. Horan broke his leg.”

“ _What_ ,” Harry repeated, feeling more awake now.

“He was running this morning to get an early breakfast when he tripped on a baby-stroller, fell and broke his leg. Now he’s in hospital and you’re covering for him,” Callahan summarised, summoning up patience Harry knew he didn’t have.

“You mean literally running?”

“Yes Styles, bloody hell. He was literally running and literally broke his leg. And now you’re literally covering for him unless you want to literally cause me a bloody heart attack. I sold my first born to get this credential.”

“Literally?”

“You know I have the power of firing you, right?”

“Sorry, boss. I’ll… I’ll be meeting you there in an hour.”

“Great, I’m sending you what Horan and I have prepared for the conference,” and then he hang up.

Harry stroked Olivia’s little head and tried to make him mind clear. Oh, poor Niall and his bad knee. Harry knew something like that would happen sooner or later. He had to call his friend and see if he needed anything, and as he did so his mobile buzzed with the notification of Callahan’s e-mail. He should also take a picture of his cat because she looked absolutely adorable.

A minute later, he got two instagram notifications and a picture of Niall’s leg cast followed by the text _fml [crying emoji] [crying emoji] [crying emoji]_. He replied saying _don’t worry mate, i'm going to break a leg at the conference [winking emoji]_. _i’m deleting your number_ , Niall declared.

He briefed what he could on Tomlinson’s career and boxing in general, and also went through the questions that had been prepared, with little intention of using them. If he had to be in a press conference, he much preferred to stay quiet and pay attention to what everyone else was saying.

He tried to follow his morning routine as best as he could in the hurried and sleep-deprived state he was in. Reluctantly taking Olivia off his lap, he took a quick shower, then made some stretching poses, prepared a toast and a cup of strong coffee, put enough cat food to last through the day and in forty minutes was ready to head out.

It took him almost half an hour by taxi to get to the Victoria Centre, a huge Victorian-style building on Oxford Street. Its front steps were already getting busy with reporters, cameras and curious passers-by. Callahan was fairly easy to spot, standing against a wall with his phone on hand and wearing a bright yellow sweatshirt.

“Hey,” Harry said, trying to sound like a man ready for the job.

“Did you read my e-mail?” his boss replied with no greeting.

“Yes, I think I’m… I’m fairly prepared.”

“Don’t fret over it. You don’t even have to ask anything, just record the press conference and tweet a bit about it, then send the full thing to Horan. He insisted that he can write the follow-up article from the hospital.”

Record and tweet, it seemed simple enough.

“Okay! I just don’t get why Jesy couldn’t cover for Niall? She’s much more… sporty than I am. Or maybe even yourself?”

“I’m heading to the exclusive with Corbyn that I sold my second born to get, remember?” Callahan sounded exasperated. Harry was starting to get worried with those constant selling-his-children metaphors. “And I reckon Jesy could not pass as Niall Horan,” he completed, handing the credential to Harry.

Harry stared at the picture of a smiling, pre-broken-leg Niall, frowning a bit and pretty certain that Jesy in drag could pass as a more credible Niall than him.

“They won’t even look at the picture,” Callahan assured him.

“I could get arrested for this, couldn’t I?”

“What’s a little bit of identity theft next to an international athlete getting banned for doping?”

“I don’t feel very… comfortable doing this,” Harry tried once again, a bit unsure of what he should do. He hated press conferences well enough without getting into one pretending to be someone else.

Callahan emitted a long, dramatic sigh. “Styles, listen to me. I could barely get Horan a credential, let alone change it last minute. We’re lucky Tomlinson even decided to get a press conference at all, with fifteen different channels pressuring him to get an exclusive. You can do this, son.”

He put a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry knew he was saying all of that not to lose the web traffic that the event would generate, but he still felt a bit more confident anyway.

“Record and tweet, right?”

“That’s it. Thanks a million, Styles. See you later,” Callahan said, rushing out through the bustling crowd.

As his boss had said, the security guard inside the building barely looked at his credential. He only asked his name, checked it off a list and then scanned the credential with a barcode. The main room, where the conference would take place, was a few meters after the entrance on the left. Some big sports journalists were already there, and Harry greeted a few acquaintances, putting his fake identification inside his pocket.

“I wouldn’t imagine seeing you at a sports event,” said one of his old classmates, who now worked at the BBC.

“Me neither. I’m covering for a colleague.”

“Oh man, it’s so frustrating to be here. I really thought Louis was better than this.”

“I don’t get it either. He was so good in that last fight,” Harry said, trying to convincingly repeat what Niall had told him. “I really thought he would knock Lyndon out.”

“We all did. Well, that’s what the drugs were supposed to do, make him fight well, but… Man, I’ve gotta go. Good to see you,” his classmate shook his hand and ran after an important-looking woman who had just entered the room.

Harry patiently waited while the place was getting more and more packed. The journalists and reporters were all friendly talking, but he knew that the field day atmosphere would be over once the conference started. They’d all be killing each other to be chosen to ask their questions.

He read the e-mail Callahan had sent once again, more carefully this time. There were the basic questions – _What’s the stance of your sponsors regarding what happened? Do you feel like you’ve let Britain down? Are you afraid of losing your Olympic medal?_  –, the mean ones – _How has your family reacted? How do you feel knowing that you’ve let them down_? – and the really mean ones – _You were quoted back in 2014 saying that “Every athlete has a choice to take a drug, or work hard and win because they’re actually good”, would you say you’re a farce as a boxer?_ Harry hated all of them.

The next step was to login on the magazine’s twitter account. It was 8:53, and he tweeted _Tomlinson’s press conference starts in a few minutes. Ready to hear his explanations? #louistomlinson #boxing #dopingcharges_. Olivia’s picture had twenty-one likes now, and that made him a bit happier.

By the time that an outrageously good-looking man sat by the table, Harry had already learned that he was Zayn Malik, Tomlinson’s publicist.

“Mr. Tomlinson will join us in a minute,” Malik stated on the microphone. It seemed that hundreds of cameras were flashing. “We’re here to discuss the British Boxing Board of Control decision to ban Mr. Tomlinson from boxing during twelve months, starting from yesterday, and its possible repercussions. Mr. Tomlinson will not answer any personal questions, and anyone who insists on making them will be asked to leave.”

Malik made a small pause to drink some water and let his words sink in.

“We’ll take one question at a time. Before making your question, please state your name and media outlet. Are we understood?”

A sea of heads nodded, and then there was some whispering. Tomlinson entered the room followed by Liam Payne, his new manager, who sat on his right side. The boxer looked tired, but held his head high and faced the crowd hungry for explanations and apologies.

He glanced at Malik and nodded.

Malik stood up, pointing at a woman at the front of the crowd who had her hand raised high. “Ok, let’s start with the lady in red here.”

“Good morning, I’m Theresa Cunningham from the Guardian. Mr. Tomlinson, do you admit to taking Nandrolone to enhance your performance in the match against Timothy Lyndon?”

Tomlinson cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Harry felt horrible for him, but snapped a picture and waited to tweet his answer while checking on Google how to spell the name of the drug.

“I do,” was all he said. It was like a volcano had erupted in the crowd.

_BREAKING: Tomlinson admits taking Nandrolone, a banned controlled substance, in his match against Timothy Lyndon. #louistomlinson #boxing_

“We can’t move on if you don’t stay quiet,” Malik ordered on the microphone, scolding them like a schoolteacher, and the buzz died down. “Now, the man with round glasses over there.”

A tall ginger man stood up, blocking Harry’s vision of Tomlinson. He introduced himself and asked, “Why did you do it?”

“Because of a stupid reason with an even more stupid motivation,” Tomlinson answered. He sounded fed up, like a man who would rather be anywhere else, but who could blame him? Harry tweeted, _Tomlinson admits to taking Nandrolone, says it was for a “stupid reason”_.

Hands kept being raised, and journalists kept being called one after another. They asked if Tomlinson was ashamed of what he had done (“Of course I am, but it is what it is”), if he was afraid of losing sponsors (“Didn’t they always say they loved me?”) and how could he face his family now (“What part of ‘no personal questions’ didn’t you get?” – that was Malik answering for him).

Harry typed and typed into his mobile. Callahan would be happy – they had gained a hundred and something followers in thirty minutes, besides tons of likes and retweets. He snapchated some pictures here and there, trying to catch the moments when Tomlinson looked the most defeated, but felt so horrible for exploiting the situation that he stopped after the third one.

Tomlinson seemed lost sometimes, fixing his eyes on the back wall for a few moments or looking around the room. But every time he spoke, his voice carried a fierce determination and a clear message: Yes, I screwed up. Yes, I regret it. No, you’re not breaking me down because of it.

After almost an hour, things started to slow down. Less people were raising their hands and some were even going away, off to write away based on what they got there.

“We’ll take three more questions,” Malik announced, looking around the room to decide who he would call next.

But before he could say anything, Tomlinson caught his attention by holding his arm. Then Tomlinson himself stood up and said, “The curly-haired guy at the back,” nobody manifested themselves. “The one wearing the silk shirt,” he completed and… oh shit, he was calling Harry. This was not supposed to happen. He was just there to record and tweet. He wasn’t even raising his hand. Why was Tomlinson calling anyone _at all_?

Every head in the room turned to look at him. The boxer sat down as he stood up.

Harry felt like a child being caught doing something very wrong.

Did his boss give him any questions? He must have. Where were his notes again? Everything was on his mobile, that’s it. He quickly opened the correct e-mail and skimmed through the questions Callahan and Niall had prepared.

Should he say his name was Niall? But plenty of people there knew it wasn’t. Should he risk saying his real name and possibly being caught? Should he–

“Let’s go,” Malik rushed him.

“I’m, erm… Harry Styles, from the Overview magazine,” he paused, looking up from his mobile. “What I would like to ask, Mr. Tomlinson, is… what happens now?”

Some people coughed. Tomlinson smirked.

“What’s your name again?”

“Harry. Harry Styles.”

“Well, Styles, now life moves on. You have your field day writing about my disgrace, I go back home to have my walk of shame. And after that, I plan to get back on me feet and start working hard again to become a champion. That’s what happens now.”

Harry nodded, with his hands slightly shaking, feeling like a complete idiot, and got back to his seat. He really, really hated those bloody conferences.

* * *

There was nothing better than being back to the newsroom. He wrote a quick summary of the conference and sent it to Niall together with the audio recording, then went on to finish the article about Machu Picchu. The publication was scheduled for tomorrow, which would give Jade plenty of time to proofread it, and after that he looked at the assignments that Callahan sent for the day. He designated his team the most urgent and simpler tasks, and then all of them had a weekly meeting to decide on the more complex assignments that would make their monthly printed version.

Harry was to write a follow-up about the Picasso exhibition that was opening on Friday, and an article about the women who were called the Japanese Mermaid. He stretched his arms and put the kettle on. He chose black tea for himself, also getting an earl grey bag that Jade had asked for.

It was a much calmer day at work, and much duller without Niall there. Callahan arrived after midday, glowing because of his interview with Corbyn. He greeted them with _Hello, my dearest journalists_ and they all exchanged worried looks as he locked himself in his office, barely leaving through the whole afternoon.

With his earphones on and an indie playlist on Apple Music, Harry wrote away, something he had learned to love along the way. He couldn’t really remember when he decided to become a journalist – throughout most of his teenage years, he was decided on making it as a singer. 

But finding gigs was exhausting, let alone getting paid ones. He fought with his band mates all the time, and after a failed X Factor audition, he had to admit that he probably wouldn’t be the next Justin Bieber, let alone the next Jagger. He settled for creating a Youtube channel where he posted covers and some original songs. It was going well so far, with him getting some loyal followers after three years of regular posting.

Plan B was becoming a lawyer, even though he was aware that the profession wouldn’t be as exciting as Law & Order made it out to be. But then his year twelve English teacher, whom he absolutely adored, told him she was impressed with his way with words.

 _Keep writing_ , she advised. _Don’t waste away your talent_. What she forgot to mention was that pursuing the journalistic career would lead him to become a specialist on flower fertilizers and obsessively going through every Louis Tomlinson’s social media account. Harry resented her more than a bit.

Niall texted him late in the afternoon, saying he was at home kicking everything with his cast and asking if Harry could come over later to help him out. _sure man, i think i’m leaving before seven xxx_

When all his articles were properly scheduled for publication, he organised his desk, turned off his laptop and knocked on Callahan’s door. His boss was listening to the transcript of his interview for probably the fifth time, eating a tuna sandwich with one hand and typing at an impressive speed with the other.

"Hey, is it ok for me to head home?"

"Sure Styles, go ahead," he answered with his mouth half full. And then, after swallowing the bite, "You were great today."

Harry beamed like a schoolchild getting a golden star. “Thanks, boss. I really appreciate it.”

"Horan says he’ll be back tomorrow… _hop_ fully," he added with a giggle. Harry abstained from commenting, sad that he hadn’t made the pun himself. “So he’s going to keep writing the follow-ups. Oh, and don’t forget about our meeting tomorrow at half eight.”

“Never! Bye boss, have a nice night.”

Out of his colleagues, only Leigh-Anne was still there, reading something on the LSE website. “How’s the economy going?” he asked her, getting his jacket from the hanger. “Chaotic,” she answered simply and very seriously, and he laughed as he left the office.

Niall lived in a studio tinier than his in Camden Town, where Harry had stayed during his first weeks in London while he was house hunting. He loved the friendly atmosphere of the neighborhood – more than once Niall had brought home cake baked by one of his senior neighbours.

He texted Niall when he arrived, and Niall shouted from the window, “Take the keys, mate, the intercom is broken.” He threw the keys at Harry before any other warning, which hit right on his nose in a painful way. Harry took a deep, deep breath, and didn’t say anything back.

“Thanks a million, Harry, you’re saving my life,” Niall said as soon as he opened the door, hugging him tightly. The painkillers clearly had a plural effect on him. “Lisa is off doing something with her ma and I don’t even think she loves me anymore, she’s leaving me here to rot.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Truthfully.” Niall hopped to where he had left his crunches, and asked in a childish voice, “Can you rub my back?”

“What.”

"I need to have a shower, but I have to do it sitting down and I can’t rub my back.”

Harry didn’t really want to rub his friend’s back, nor help him have a shower at all, but he nodded and followed a hopping Niall into the bathroom. There were two plastic chairs there, which were lent by one of his neighbours, and he unceremoniously striped all his clothes, sat on one chair, supported his cast with the other, and waited.

After rolling up his sleeves, Harry took the shower hose, the loofah and the very good smelling soap. He wetted Niall’s back carefully and started to wash it, giggling to himself when he thought about how many gay porn videos started in a very similar way. Niall started humming the tune for Justin Bieber’s Sorry.

“All done, mate,” he announced after three minutes.

"Thanks, now can you wash my hair?”

“Niall.”

“I broke my leg today, Harry. I lost a press conference that I really wanted to attend. And my girlfriend has run away,” he listed in a very dramatic way. “I’m suffering.”

So Harry grabbed the shampoo and started massaging his scalp. Niall looked like a very happy kitten.

"How was Louis today?"

"It was a mess," Harry said, applying a little bit more of shampoo. “But I think he handled himself well. Oops, be careful with your eyes.”

 “I can’t believe I missed it. I hate myself. I hate you a little bit too.”

 “I’m washing your hair and I covered for you, how can you hate me.”

 “But you were there today while I was taking crazier drugs than he did at hospital. Life is unfair.”

 “There we can agree, man, I hate press conferences.”

 “But I followed your tweets, you did a great job.”

 “Thanks, Niall.”

 “Did he look handsome?”

 “He did.”

Niall sighed and stayed quiet while Harry carefully washed his hair, happily purring with the massage movements. Harry started to hum himself, to Adele’s Hello, while he finished the job. Then he rinsed the shampoo and put a white towel around Niall’s hair.

“Please don’t ask me to wash anything else,” he begged when he was finished. Niall laughed and said he could take over now. Harry gave a relieved sigh and waited for him while lying on bed, using the quiet time to continue his reading of _The Girl on the Train_.

After some time and grunting noises, Niall left the bathroom with a towel wrapped on his waist. He put on comfy pajamas with some difficulty, and then lay besides Harry.

"Is this book good?" he asked.

"It’s getting interesting."

"They’re making in into a movie, right?"

"Right, I’m sort of curious how they’ll translate the story into the big screen. Is it hurting a lot?"

"Nah, it’s okay."

“What time do you need to take your meds?”

“Half nine.”

“Do you want to order something to eat?”

“Thai, please.”

Lisa texted Niall, saying she was heading to his flat, just after Harry had ordered the food. He waited until she arrived, and she greeted him with a tight hug. “Thank you so much for helping,” she said, then kissed his cheek. Lisa was a very affectionate woman. She headed to the bed and sat beside Niall, kissing all over his face.

“I’m so sorry, babe, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay now, Harry rubbed my back and ordered food.”

“That’s great, Harry’s the best.”

“The doctor said no sexual activity is allowed for at least a week.”

“Well, the doctor is _not_ the best,” Lisa said, laughing. “Where did you put your meds?”

“On the kitchen table. Are you going to stay with me today?”

“Of course, love. I’m sorry for today, but I couldn’t cancel on my mum.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think I’ll get going.”

“Sure, mate, thanks for the help,” Niall said, waving from the bed. Lisa hugged and thanked him one more time before he left.

For the second evening in a row, he arrived home wrecked, petted Olivia, and started to work on his French translation. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was a Friday when things got strange.

Fridays were Harry’s favourite day of the week since he started taking yoga lessons, which made him leave work a bit earlier than usual and head to Soho. After the lesson was over, sometimes they would all grab something to eat, sometimes he would go straight home. He loved spreading out on his sofa, with Olivia on his lap or playing around his legs, sipping a glass of wine and feeling like a glorious forty-year old suburban American mum while watching _Friends_ re-runs.

So that was exactly what he was looking forward to – a relaxing Friday evening, celebrating the end of horrible freelance work by getting a bit tipsy and giggling alone in his room while watching TV.

The setbacks started early, though.

His phone buzzed before ten with a text from Alain. He had kept quiet since being ignored by Harry a few days ago, but now it seemed like a great time to go back to being annoying. What was that thing Harry’s friends always said he should do? Oh right, block and delete his number. Harry really had to do that.

Instead, he opened the text. The ignored one said _je suis sérieux [sad face emoji]_ , and the newest one sent a shiver down his spine. Alain was telling him that he was going to be in London next week and he would very much like to meet Harry. _nous pourrions prendre un café, peut-être?_

I don’t want to get any coffee with you, thanks and bye, Harry wanted to answer. He really did, and he should, and once more he didn’t.

His mobile fell on the ground and everybody stared at him. He gave a nervous laugh before picking it up, and he stared at the phone with such fierce intensity that it could explode. When he raised his head, he noticed that Niall was still looking at him suspiciously from his improvised workstation at the other end of the long table.

Niall’s leg was resting on a chair, with his laptop was on his lap and the desk being used as an armrest. Now his upper body was turned to face Harry, with his raised eyebrow being a clear signal of the implied _what the fuck just happened?_ , as if he could sense the distressing content that Harry had just read.

He gestured Niall to wait and typed, _alain says hes coming to london_. Niall judged him intensely from across the table. _let me know where he’ll be at and i’ll personally go punch him. or maybe smack him with my crunches_. Harry shook his head. _stop it! first, i don’t think you’d be very threatening right now… second, i’ll just ignore it._

Niall gave him a discredited look. It was a huge problem how well his friends knew him.

From across his office, they heard Callahan shouting, “What have I said about personal conversations through electronic devices during work time?” The others barely reacted to that explicit show of alien powers, but Niall and Harry stared at each other one last time, both sharing the same surprised expression. _he’s a witch_ , Niall declared, throwing the phone inside his bag and getting back to work.

Harry followed suit, using every last drop of his willpower not to answer Alain. He knew he was eventually going to, but he didn’t need to do that in front of his co-workers, which he was quite sure would lead to some kind of public intervention by Niall. Alain could wait until his lunch break.

But the setbacks could not, because barely twenty minutes later, Callahan opened his office door with the weirdest look on his face. Everybody looked at him with expectation, but he didn’t do much more than staring at the wall opposite to him.  

“Is everything ok?” Jesy finally broke the silence.

Callahan nodded, then considered it, and then nodded again. He had a mobile on his hands, and was holding it so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“I reckon.”

“Did you get any… disturbing calls?” she insisted.

“Styles, my office, now,” Callahan said instead of answering, seeming to get out of a trance. All heads turned to him in unison. “Everybody else can get to work, those deadlines won’t meet themselves.”

He and Niall exchanged a puzzled look while he crossed the room. Callahan gave way for him to enter the office, closing the door behind them. Harry sat and waited.

“That was Malik on the phone,” Callahan said, “As in Louis Tomlinson’s publicist.”

Harry knew very well who Malik was – he would never forget a face like that.

“He said that… Tomlinson wants to talk to you.”

“What.”

“Tomlinson apparently wants to have a meeting to discuss a possible exclusive interview, but he was very vague and refused to go into any deeper details.”

“A meeting with… _me_.”

“Yes, a meeting with you.”

“I’m not… I don’t know why… I’m not a sports journalist.”

“I know that, but Malik was very specific.”

“Why would Louis Tomlinson want to very specifically talk to me?”

Callahan took a deep breath, his classic warning that his patience was running low. “Styles, what part of the Malik being vague didn’t you get? I don’t know why he called us or what he wants to talk about. What I do know is that you have a meeting set for Monday morning.”

No, he didn’t. As much as he would love to be up close to Tomlinson in an obscure meeting, he could picture what a humiliation it would be for him to try interviewing a boxer with the non-existent knowledge or – even more damaging – interest in the subject that the interview was about.

“And before you say you can’t go and that I should send Horan, let me say that I explained that to Malik, but he insisted that Tomlinson wanted to have a meeting with Harry Styles or not meet us at all. So you’re _definitely_ going.”

Harry felt a tiny bit cocky then, holding the future of a great article on his hands, but the biggest part of him was filled by equal amounts of panic and confusion.

“That’s it for now. I’ll send you the details in a moment. Have fun watching all of Tomlinson’s matches over the weekend.”

As soon as he stepped out of the office, his mobile buzzed with three hundred texts sent to the magazine’s (Callahan not included) group chat. _what did he want?,_ asked Perrie. _are you in trouble?_ , worried Jade. _spill it!!!!_ , demanded Jesy, with Niall enthusiastically agreeing with her and using twenty different emojis to express so.

_i think i have a meeting with louis tomlinson?_

_what????????????????_

_cool_

_what_

_when is it?_

_i hate you_ , this last one was Niall’s.

_i have no idea what’s about neither does callahan why is this happening_

_it’s right on next monday btw_

Callahan opened his office door and stared at them as if he was on the verge of breathing fire, and they all emitted a collective _Sorry!_

* * *

He usually grabbed lunch with Niall, but due to his friend’s broken leg he was on feeding duty. Not in a weird way, Niall stressed, just meaning that Harry was the one responsible to bring him a BLT sandwich from Costa.

Kath, the cashier, chatted with him a little bit while checking out his two sandwiches and an iced tea. She lamented about Niall’s leg, complained about the weather, told Harry about a brilliant party that was happening on Saturday, said that she served Ed Sheeran coffee the other day and everybody took selfies with him, did he want to see it?, all in the span of one and a half minute.

He then sat on a corner table and ate slowly. His mind was an odd mix of dickhead ex-boyfriend coming to town and disgraced boxer who by some mysterious reason wanted to have a meeting with him. Trying to fit the numerous puzzle pieces, he could barely taste his sandwich.

When Harry was a teenager, suffering from unrequited crushes on straight dumb boys, he envied adults who didn’t have to go through all that teen drama. Part of him was aware that every heartbreak hurt two thousand times more than it had to in your teenage years, but his mother always said that it was fine because this was the way young people processed feelings.

So his goal was to be an adult with a drama-free love life.

It was going terribly so far.

The first love of his life was Ethan, back in college. Harry had arrived in Manchester all alone and ready to mingle with his new big city classmates, and Ethan was a very solicitous second-year student of political sciences. They started dating six weeks after Harry started university and broke up a bit more than two years later, leading Harry to write fifty-two terrible sad songs about it.

The next love of his life was Nathan, but this one was a bad idea from the beginning. Nathan was his supervisor at the Manchester Daily News, almost ten years older and indescribably sexy. He played rugby and read Dostoiévski for fun. He blew Harry on the restroom stalls of the newsroom. He took Harry out to try different kinds of food every weekend, then they got drunk on cheap wine, and on the next day Nathan seemed all ready at six in the morning for a 10k run.

It ended in a very, very messy way, costing Harry a promising position at the newspaper. It was for the best, though, he repeated to himself religiously, taking it as a sign that he should follow his dream and finally move to London. He arrived there determined to stay out of love for quite some time, until he met a cute French graphic designer named Alain.

The Frenchman was taking a gap-year after college to travel around the continent, living in a bunch of different cities and doing freelance work. He had been to Warsaw, Budapest, Brno and Stockholm before getting to London. The magazine needed some last hour design for their next printed edition, and Leigh-Anne said that she knew this guy who was couchsurfing at her boyfriend’s place.

Intense was a good way to start describing what they had. Intense was actually a good way to describe Alain as a whole, who seemed to live always on the edge. He had invited Harry to live with him in Belgrado, his next planned destination, on their second date. They stayed together for short but remarkable five months, before Harry found out that Alain had ignored his “I don’t feel comfortable with us seeing other people” talk and, well, had been seeing plenty of other people.

Apparently inviting others to live with him in different cities across the globe was just Alain’s thing.

The Frenchman left London shortly after that. His gap-year had been indefinitely extended, made into more of a lifestyle, and he kept hopping from one city to the next, casually texting Harry part of songs, French memes Harry didn’t really get or simply saying he missed him.

And now the guy wanted to meet him, and Harry didn’t need to be a genius to know that his true intent was getting back on Harry’s trousers. Which didn’t sound like a bad idea because god knew it had been some time, but it was actually a horrible idea because it was Alain.

He ended up answering, _when are you coming? i’m quite busy next week though x_ and groaning to himself.

With the first issue solved, or the closest it could be to solved, Harry focused on the next one: why the fuck would Louis Tomlinson want to have a meeting with him? He must have remembered his name from the press conference, but that hadn’t gone very well. And he had to search for the magazine to get its number, knowing all along that Harry was not the best option to talk to.

It also made no sense that, if the intent was to give an exclusive interview like Callahan speculated, Tomlinson chose a small and local magazine like them. He’d logically go to some big newspaper or TV network, and Harry was sure that any of them would gladly accept his request.

Even though the Overview was growing in a steady pace, especially over the last few months when they structured their online publication and started targeting a young adult audience, the magazine didn’t really have a considerable reach outside the greater London. Talking to them was, strategically speaking, a bad move.

Failing to reach any conclusions on that topic, Harry finished lunch and got back to work. He talked a little bit with some colleagues from other offices who were smoking outside, bought some bananas from an old lady, and rushed up when Niall called him complaining about how hungry he felt.

He helped Niall to hop into the kitchen and gave him his sandwich. Niall happily munched, easing the food down with a big cup of coffee. Tomlinson was a sure topic, mostly consisting of Niall describing every single milestone in the boxer’s career and sharing the selfie they had taken together after a match last year.

“I hope you don’t…” Harry cleared his throat, feeling awkward for having starting the sentence at all. “Resent me because of this. I really had no say on it.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Niall quickly retorted. “Well, I did want to slap you for a moment, but I brought this on myself for going out there and breaking my leg, right? It’s something that I shouldn’t have done.”

“It was an accident.”

“A stupid accident.”

“Yeah, it was a bit stupid alright.”

“Plus I’m happy because it could me something really good for the magazine – and for you. My boy is going to places,” he continued, trying to reach out to pinch Harry’s cheek, but failing when his cast got stuck in the cupboard.

“I just want to _understand_.”

“You shouldn’t, you should just enjoy the opportunity to become best friends with Louis Tomlinson,” Niall said with his mouth half full. “Oh, and then you should make _me_ become best friends with him. I would forgive you if you did that.”

Harry laughed, finishing up his lunch and jumping over Niall’s leg so he could reach the sink.

“I don’t think that’s a realistic prospect though, sorry. Have you seen him? He always looks like he had places to go.”

“Such an important man,” his friend agreed.

“Plus you’ve already filled the spot for the sports-enthusiastic friend, I can’t deal with more,” Harry reasoned.

Thankfully, the rest of the day went on uneventfully and he could get back to fantasying about his relaxing suburban mum evening while following his regular schedule. Harry breathed in the normality – he loved it. He shouldn’t, as a journalist, but there was something about the lack of surprises that made him feel happy and cozy.

He was feeling much more peaceful when Alain let him know that he was arriving to London on Saturday night, how about meeting on Sunday? He even invited himself to go to Harry’s place, for convenience sake.

Harry rolled his eyes, thinking about how predictable men were.

His yoga class was perfectly timed, making him relax and forget about his questionable life choices for forty-five blissful minutes. After that, he went straight home and arrived before eight, something so rare that he barely knew what to do with that much time. Harry phoned his mum, played with Olivia, served himself a generous glass of wine and lay on the sofa to finish reading _The Girl on the Train_. The ladies in the story were almost finding out who the true killer was, and Harry was feeling like a true detective for having figured it out eight chapters ago.

Then his mobile rang, scaring the shit out of his book trance. Alain’s name flashed on the screen, and he felt like swallowing his mobile not to have to deal with it. But instead he took a deep breath and answered, “Hi.”

“Salut,” Alain said, and continued in English with his cute accent, “did you get my text?”

“I did.”

“If you don’t want to see me, you could just say so.”

“I…” _know that I shouldn’t want to see you but a considerable part of me absolutely wants to, preferably sans clothing,_ “didn’t really have time to answer before. Work’s been crazy.”

“Well, that’s great news, busy is good.”

“Guess so. I was working on a French translation made of nightmares these days and thought of you.”

Alain softly giggled, “Should I feel offended that nightmares make you think of me?”

“That’s not what I–”

“I’m only messing with you, babe. What was it about? I could’ve helped you.”

“Daffodils fertilizers,” Harry said in a defeated way.

“Actually I couldn’t because I have no idea of what that means,” Alain retorted, laughing more now.

“Daffodil is a type of flower, those cute yellow ones that… well, it doesn’t matter. So, what brings you to London?”

“I’m thinking about going back to school, I have the feeling that I’m ready to settle down,” he explained casually and Harry felt his stomach drop. Did he imply he was ready to settle down in London, where Harry happened to live, out of the countless more interesting cities in that area of the world? Where they could very easily bump into each other or, even worse, purposefully meet each other. “Anyway, can we meet? I miss you.”

Harry refused to say he missed him too, mostly because he wasn’t sure how he felt. His feelings about the other man were still messy – on the one hand, he enjoyed talking to him and Alain was funny, smart and did some things with his tongue that could only be an ancient form of art in France. On the other hand, the way Harry felt hurt and betrayed when he accidently found four different dick pictures on Alain’s phone was still fresh on his memory. Besides, the news of Alain possibly _living_ in London, in long term basis, was a bit too much to stomach.

“Yeah, sure, how about we meet at Lauren’s? It’s that small café two blocks from my place,” he ended up suggesting right as Olivia bit his hand stronger than usual, as if she knew.

“Three o’clock is a good time for you?”

“Erm yeah, it’s settled. See you then.”

“Fantastic, à plus.”

Harry breathed very, very deeply, and put his book on hold to masturbate.

* * *

He didn’t tell Niall about his date with Alain when they met for drinks the following evening. They went to their usual pub, quite close to his friend’s place. Lisa knew the people who were playing that evening and they called Harry to the stage, who sang a bunch of songs with them in his delightful stage of being four-pints-in-shameless.

Around the seventh one, he thought he was going to throw up, but no greater harm was done than embarrassing himself on social media. And even that was cut short when his sister texted him saying she was going to personally go there and kick him in the face if he didn’t stop posting lame puns on twitter.

Sunday started early with a dry mouth and a throbbing head. Harry dragged himself to the kitchen, prepared a kale juice and took two aspirins. Then swore out loud when he remembered that his meeting with Alain was only a few hours away. Summoning all of his strength, he tried to make his flat look more presentable and left the lube by the nightstand, just in case.

Making the best out of a quiet morning, Harry practiced the cover song he wanted to post on his channel and worked a bit on an original one he was struggling to find the right rhythm for. Playing the guitar was much easier now that Olivia was older and didn’t try to destroy the strings with her claws, being satisfied with to just rubbing his legs while he played and scribbled down notes.

When it was time, he took a long shower and washed his hair with his favourite shampoo. Harry stared at his wardrobe for twenty minutes before choosing an outfit, deciding on black skinny jeans – which were 93% of his trousers anyway – and a plain blue shirt, which he buttoned up to the neck.

He arrived at the coffee bar seven minutes early, but Alain was already there, sitting on a table by the wall. He was focused on his mobile, but opened up the biggest smile when he noticed the other man, getting up to greet him.

Harry refused to acknowledge the butterflies in his stomach.

“Ah, Harry!” he said, standing up and enveloping Harry on a very tight, very personal hug. He smelled so good that Harry felt his knees weaken, and any illusion he had of resisting Alain’s charms shattered right there. “It’s so good to see you, man.”

“Good to see you too. You changed your hair.”

“Yeah,” Alain agreed sitting back and gesturing at the chair in front of him. “This one is popular with the kids these days. And yours is longer, it looks very beautiful,” he added, smiling at Harry.

“That’s nice of you to say. Did you order anything?”

“No, I was waiting for you. What would you like to drink?”

Harry skimmed over the menu and decided on Irish coffee. The hangover from last night still lingered, but he’d be fooling himself if he thought he could deal with Alain after all those months without some booze in his bloodstream.

The man told him about the places he had visited and showed some of his recent work. Alain said he was learning how to tattoo with a Slovene artist and had brought his tattoo machine with him, offering Harry to do a piece for free. Harry told him about his job, and Olivia, and the songs he had been working on.

The more they talked, the more at ease he felt. Alain was a great lad to grab some coffee and have a chat with, and he was sure that the things between them could have been very different if he hadn’t fallen in love so hard. They switched back from English to French to a weird mixture of both, and made each other laugh like old mates.

Almost three hours had passed when Alain said, “I really want to fuck you,” and they went back to Harry’s place.

Alain fucked him hard against his kitchen table. Harry had to hold tight on each side to keep in place, resting his head on top of it and moaning loudly. Alain whispered dirty words in French in his ear, and he moaned a sequence of _ahh_ and _don’t stop_ , trying not to overthink things.

They took a quick shower after, watched an amazingly horrible 80’s horror movie and Alain said goodbye with a blowjob. Harry spent the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, with Olivia occasionally jumping on his lap, feeling too weird to do anything else.

It was only when he was preparing to bed that he remembered about the Tomlinson meeting the following day.

“Fucking shit, this guy never gives me a break,” Harry swore under his breath, scaring up Olivia a little bit. There was nothing he wished more than a good night’s sleep, but the universe appeared to be conspiring against it as usual. So he grabbed his laptop and typed _Louis Tomlinson matches_ on Youtube, opened another tab with the search _boxing rules_ , a third with _best boxers_ and a final one with _doping in boxing_.

He started his research with the match that gave Tomlinson his Olympic gold, listening to the narration and occasionally watching it while simultaneously reading an article comparing the fights in Rocky with real life ones, because he needed to start somewhere. Even though boxing was definitely not his thing, he had seen the entire Rocky franchise like any other decent person and got all his little knowledge about the sport from there.

He didn’t really notice when he fell asleep, but jerked awake when his phone started ringing beside him. For the second time in less than a week, it was his boss waking him up.

“Are you up?”

“Sure.”

“Grab a pen.”

Harry blinked eight times to adjust his eyes to the morning light, the result from not closing the blinds before accidentally falling asleep. He fumbled around the sofa, trying to find a pen, and it took him a minute to think that he would never find one there. He opened his laptop instead, the screen light hurting more than the sun.

“Done.”

“The meeting is confirmed for today at ten, on 61 Strand, Sahni & Fuller’s Consultancy. Did you write it down?”

“Today at ten, 61 Strand, Sahni & Fuller’s Consultancy,” Harry repeated.

“That’s it. I still don’t have any more details to give you, sorry.”

“No worries, boss. I’m a Tomlinson pro now,” he blatantly lied. He barely remembered the Rocky article he had read.

“Brilliant! You can go straight there and come here in the afternoon, okay? See you later.”

It was barely seven. Harry set his alarm for eight and napped a bit more, feeling more like a person the second time he woke up. He wasn’t very sure of what to wear for the meeting, settling for a dull combination of pinstriped trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt. He carefully blow-dried his hair and styled it, put on his favourite lipstick and decided he seemed like a serious enough journalist for whatever the purpose of the meeting was.

Harry squeezed himself through the sea of people talking on their mobiles and rushing up for one place or another until he could find the correct building on Strand street. He went inside, gave his name to the doorman and was allowed access to the twelfth floor, where the company was.

A very polite, middle-aged woman greeted him at the front desk by asking, “Good morning, how could I help you?”

“Hello. I’m Harry Styles and I have a meeting with Mr. Malik.”

“Just one minute, Mr. Styles,” she dialed something on her phone, said _Ok_ three times and looked at him again. “Mr. Malik will receive you soon, would you like some coffee or tea in the meanwhile?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He didn’t have to wait long. Malik soon entered the reception wearing a black suit and impeccable hair, looking ready for a Gucci advertisement shoot. His fancy looks contrasted with the tattoos on the back of his hands and climbing up his neck.

“Mr. Styles,” he said, shaking Harry’s hand. “Come with me, please.”

Harry followed him through the hall and they got into a big office with nothing but a round table and some chairs. He was half hoping to see Tomlinson himself there, but the only person in the room besides him and Malik was the boxer’s manager, Liam Payne, who also shook his hand and unnecessarily introduced himself.

“Styles, I’ll get down to business,” Malik said then. He seemed too serious and business-like for someone his age. “We’re planning Louis’ path to restore his image. The public is hurt, but they like Louis, we only need a solid plan to show that Louis isn’t the bad guy here. And we want you to be part of this plan.”

“I’m very flattered, Mr. Malik, but allow me to say that sports is not my field of specialty. I could, of course, refer a colleague of mine who could conduct an intervi–”

Malik raised his hand to interrupt him and Harry found himself a little bit hotter. “There is an exclusive here somewhere, but our offer extends for a bit more than that.”

“We’re in early talks to record a documentary about Louis’ life,” that was Payne explaining further. “And for that, we would need to hire someone to work on the storytelling and conduct ongoing interviews with Louis himself and other people participating on it. We’ve seen a bit of your work and we, erm, quite liked it. So we’re offering you the position.”

Harry breathed in, pressing the corner of the table to convince himself he was still in the real world.

Malik handed him an envelope. “This would be a draft of the contract, and we need an answer in 24 hours. If it interests you and your employer, let us know and we’ll be able to continue our arrangement.”

Harry grabbed the envelope, took the contract out and skimmed through it. His heart was beating fast – even though he was certainly not the most qualified person to do this, a unique chance of exposure for himself and the magazine was being landed right on his lap. Conduct interviews and work on a bloody _documentary_. About a disgraced international athlete. It was too good to be true.

“Of course, I’ll read it and give you an answer,” he said, succeeding in keeping it cool.

“Great! So we’re finished here, for now,” Malik said, standing up and once again shaking Harry’s hand. Payne kept his eyes fixed on Harry in a way that started to feel a bit creepy.

He left the building, opened up four buttons of his shirt and felt the envelope heavy on his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry had just entered the Charing Cross station when Alain sent him a bare-chested selfie saying _it was so great seeing you_ with a series of kissy emojis. Harry growled and threw the phone inside his bag – he didn’t have the energy for dealing with that, not at that time in the morning, not after the weirdest meeting of his life.

The terms on the draft contained a bunch of do’s and don’ts, which he would read carefully when he arrived at the magazine and talked to Callahan. What really caught his attention so far was the payment proposal, with an hourly rate three times greater than what he made at the magazine. He was expected to be available on call, so that was something he would need to work through with his boss.

The draft also included clauses such as not painting Tomlinson in a bad light, stated in fancy contract lingo, and not disclosing any kind of personal information unless the boxer gave him permission to, especially regarding of his family. An exclusive interview was set up to happen at the beginning of May and the documentary was supposed to start pre-production a couple of weeks after that. Harry felt his hands sweating at the prospect.

He had been involved in the production of some amateur documentaries while he was in Manchester, but definitely never something this big. And even though the potential learning experience was really perking his interest, what was especially holding his attention at the moment was the money.

If he accepted the proposal, he would be making much more without having to deal with odd translations that made his brain hurt, or having to edit horribly written graduate thesis. No more ghostwriting cringe articles for narcissistic blog owners to earn some extra cash for some blissful months. And all of that while getting his name out there and meeting people he would never have the chance of meeting otherwise.

Life seemed wonderfully weird and magical sometimes.

He could barely wait to arrive at the office. The tube ride was slow – he didn’t want to stay on his phone because of Alain, but didn’t have enough attention span at the moment to read. Observing the people, something he usually enjoyed, was annoying him. No songs were stuck in his head, with all his thoughts filled by the contract in his hands.

The minutes went by slowly, but finally he hoped off the tube and walked the five blocks until the building where he worked. He let Callahan know he was arriving, and barely greeted his colleagues before entering his boss’ office.

“How was it?”

“Good, I guess.”

“Did they tell you more?”

“Yeah, they did, it’s… really something.” Harry handed him the envelope and Callahan quickly skimmed through it. “They have proposed that I work with them for around a year, while they record sort of a documentary about Tomlinson’s life. Plus we would get an exclusive.”

Callahan was quiet and contemplative for a moment.

“They’re going to lay the groundwork for his title match,” he sentenced then.

“How are they going to do that if he’s suspended?”

“That’s quite the point, they want his comeback to be a fight for the title,” Callahan said. “He fucked up but people are still standing by him. They want him to earn his place back, to show them he’s worth it. What’s better than coming back from a yearlong suspension with a match against the champion?”

“Isn’t it illegal or something? The guy literally took drugs the last time he tried doing that.”

“It’d be quite the story, wouldn’t it?”

Harry had to agree, they were being handed a story that they could spin in a very emotional way. Not only was that a way of making Harry’s pockets fuller, but also the chance of getting the Overview some national – or even international – exposure, something Callahan hadn’t envisioned when he started his small, idealistic business three years earlier.

“I still can’t figure out why they contacted us. There must be a catch.”

Callahan stroked his chin, focusing on the draft.

“Maybe they want to shed a different light into this. It’s easy for the big media to just be dramatic and judgmental, but for online outlets the discussion is usually deeper. Maybe they trust us to give a different scoop.”

Harry couldn’t see how they were better than the big guys, after he had personally snapchatted fourteen out-of-context shots of Tomlinson looking sad or defeated during his press conference, but he guessed they were still miles better than the bigger fish. Some of the article about the boxer on widespread outlets had been nauseating.

He scratched his nose and stayed quiet for a moment.

“If I accept this, does that mean I’m out of the magazine?” he asked.

“What? No. We can work around it, unless you want to be out of the magazine. Do you want to be out?”

“No! No, boss. I’m quite happy here. I was just wondering how this would work.”

Callahan said he was busy until lunch, but they scheduled a meeting at the end of the afternoon to talk more about the terms of the contract and how Harry’s potential work with Tomlinson could interfere on his work for the magazine.

By seven in the next morning, Harry was dialing the number on Malik’s business card. The phone rang one, two, six times, and he was almost sure that all the business talk had been a practical joke when a sleepy voice growled, “Yeah?”

“Sorry, is it Mr. Malik?”

“Yeah.”

“Hello, Mr. Malik, here’s Harry Styles. I’d like to inform you that I accept your proposal.”

“Ok, cool,” he still sounded just as sleepy, clearly wanting to kill Harry. “The first rule of the job is to never call me before nine.”

“I’m terribly so–”

“The second rule of the job,” Malik interrupted him, “is to preferably never call me, ever. Can I text the details of our next meeting to this number?”

“Sure, Mr. Malik, I’ll be waiting.” And then the call was disconnected without any goodbyes.

Seven days before, Tomlinson got suspended for doping. Now, Harry was being hired to work with him on a slightly sketchy arrangement that would make him a much richer man than he had planned to be in those next months. He saw more boxing in that week than in his whole life, had been fucked by his scumbag ex against his table, and Niall had broken his leg.

That had been possible the craziest week of his life.

Even so, that Tuesday morning went on quite the same as last week’s. Harry got out of bed, fed Olivia, stretched, posted on instagram a quick video of the cat playing with his shoelaces, felt his vain need for approval being filled by the likes that he got, made breakfast, skimmed the news, and answered Alain although he knew it was a bad idea.

It seemed like a normal morning, but he had a feeling it was the quiet before the storm. And by storm, he meant getting involved in Louis Tomlinson’s life.

* * *

Malik texted him right before eleven, while he was suffering to understand a review about an obscure Hungarian movie that was cited as the main inspiration for the book he was writing an article about. He was trying to decide the pros and cons of giving up on Google Translator and just learning Hungarian when his mobile blessedly buzzed.

_Styles, I’ve talked to Louis and he scheduled lunch with you tomorrow. Can you make it? You’re not allowed to disclose the place nor time of the meeting, of course._

Harry felt his stomach sink – in a good way, he guessed. He had a tiny bit of hope of meeting Tomlinson on Monday, but felt somewhat relieved that the man was not there. But the next day would be the real thing, having lunch together and talking business, and he quite surely wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t even know, exactly, what he should be ready for.

During his time as a journalist, he had met his fair share of celebrities. He interviewed Danny Boyle during his last year in college, partied with Harry Kane once and even got friendly with Ian McKellen at the backstage of an interview program, which was the absolute highlight of his life. He shouldn’t be feeling like an insecure teenager over meeting Tomlinson.

But he was. He also felt anxious and excited and hot and confused, among another myriad of conflicting feelings that started boiling inside of him the second he got Malik’s text.

_Absolutely, send me the details, please_ , he answered and then didn’t know what to do. So he convinced Niall to go to Costa with him, even if it meant having a broken-legged Irishman uncomfortably hopping around Central London during lunchtime.

Niall complained during the whole time and made Harry declare his undying love for him a bit too loudly in the crowded café. Then they ate in silence for a moment, before his friend asked, “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“I’m meeting Tomlinson tomorrow,” that was the first thing out of a couple he wanted to tell his friend. Niall fake cried, holding his hand.

“I hope you know how deeply I envy you. Get his private number, please, I want to be besties.”

Harry laughed a bit. “I’m going to try, buddy.”

“And find out if he smells good. I bet he smells good. You’ll spend so much time smelling.”

“That is an exciting prospect, yes. I hear he also throws great parties.”

“Ah yeah, man. Get me to party with him, it’s all I ask.”

“You’ve already asked me three things.”

Niall shrugged and got back to eating his sandwich. Harry had the decency to wait for him to finish before telling the second piece of news he’d been withholding,

“I slept with Alain.”

His friend stared at him disgruntled, slowly shaking his head. Harry half expected him to say _I’m not angry at you, just disappointed_ like a passive-aggressive parent, knowing that he sort of deserved it.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

_Because making bad decisions is just easier_ , was the answer in his mind and he took a mental note of it, thinking it could perfectly fit on a song. But what he really said was, “He’s a dickhead, but in a cute way?”

“Come on, Harry, there are plenty of non-dickhead cute boys in London, I’m sure. Wasn’t that tech guy from the fifth floor hitting on you?”

“A bit too intensely, I must say.”

“And…?”

“He wasn’t my type.”

“You said the same about pierced-ear Sam.”

“Because he wasn’t my type either!”

“He looked exactly like Ronnie Wood, how _wasn’t_ he your type?”

Harry had to shrug at having been exposed.

Niall breathed in and out, and there was a part of Harry that fully enjoyed being scolded like a small child. He took a second mental note of visiting home as soon as possible, because things weren’t looking bright if he’d just thought of Niall as a maternal figure.

“I can’t tell you what to do, but I want you to know that I’m judging you and disapproving of your choices.”

Harry frowned and finished his lunch as well. They slowly got back to their office, not talking much anymore. The newsroom was empty except for Jesy, who was eating an apple while typing on her laptop, and they worked much quieter than usual. Callahan would be proud.

The hours went by horribly slow. Harry wrote so much that his fingertips hurt and his head was throbbing when he finally turned off his laptop, calling it a day. The girls invited him for a pint, which he happily agreed to – nothing like a bit of booze to loosen up the knot that seemed to be tied on his chest.

The five of them sat on their usual table at Quinn’s, the pub just a few blocks away from the magazine building. They badmouthed Callahan for a bit, not to break the habit, and then complained about the men in their lives. Harry told them about Alain, sounding as dramatic as he could to become the sole victim of the story, and they gave him the response he couldn’t expect from Niall anymore – along the lines of _“Oh no, angel, he doesn’t deserve you!”_ and _“I can’t believe he had the balls to text you after all that!”_

He decided to walk home that night. It was an hour away, but it was still early and Olivia had enough food and water. He was blissfully tipsy, eager to feel some fresh air against his face as he pictured himself in a The Verve music video.

London at the end of the evening was his favourite. The city was still bustling, as always, but everybody seemed to slow down a bit and appreciate the beautiful things that surrounded them. There were a lot of couples walking together, holding hands and still wearing their work outfit, whispering things on each other’s ear. Harry felt something funny in his stomach – he missed that, even though he wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever had it or even what _it_ encapsulated.

Maybe with Ethan… things used to be so good and uncomplicated with Ethan, why had they broken up again? Oh, yes. Because Ethan said he wasn’t ready to commit so deeply, while Harry felt he was born ready to unconditionally share his life with someone. He missed Ethan. Maybe he should pitifully message him on Facebook and ask what the man had been up to in those last couple of years.

Then he felt like crying for a moment, because it was just a ridiculous prospect.

There were also crowds of loud teenagers carrying bottles containing different alcoholic beverages, cracking up and listening to music aloud on the middle of the street, and their youthful noise made it difficult for Harry to enjoy his deeply emotional moment, forcing him out of his stupor.

It felt weird. On the one hand, he enjoyed going out and grabbing a drink with his friends, filling his days with so much activity that he barely had time for himself. On the other, sometimes he felt the strong urge to just give in to the old cat lady that lived inside of him, never leaving Olivia’s side again and resigning himself to a dull life at the age of twenty-two.

It was difficult to deal with the two – or more – Harries inside of him, sometimes.

A melody started playing in his head then, and it followed him until he arrived home. He had some trouble finding the right keys to open the gate, and it took his three minutes to remember the 4-digit combination of his door alarm, a sign that he had underestimated how smashed he was.

Olivia walked between his legs as soon as he closed the door, and she followed him to bed, where his guitar laid, and then back to his laptop, where he opened his music notation software. He started playing the melody that was stuck on his head for the last forty minutes, an easy combination of Cs and Ds followed by a G, another C and an E minor, mumbling to non-existent lyrics.

“We’re getting older, baby…” he sang quietly, trying to fit the line to the rhythm. It didn’t. He cleared his throat and tried again, “We’re only getting older, baby…”

Much better, he thought, and Olivia seemed to agree with her happy purr.

Three hours and half a song later, he felt like his fingers were going to fall off after the double journey that day. His back also screamed for some relief and his eyes could barely keep open. He saved the files he’d worked on, turned off his laptop and went through a painful but effective sequence of stretching that would make Nevenka, his yoga instructor, proud. This way he managed to avoid taking an aspirin, and opted for some chamomile tea instead.

Harry had a deep and dreamless night of sleep. When he woke up five hours and seventeen minutes later, he was feeling unusually rested considering the short amount of sleep he had got. He had a warm shower, washed his hair carefully, chose his outfit for the day with much love and prepared a big healthy breakfast before even remembering that that day was the day he was meeting Louis Tomlinson.

Then he had a small but manageable breakdown, and kept on with his morning.

* * *

Malik sent a Soho address in the middle of the morning, informing him that he should be there at half twelve. That gave Harry roughly two hours of pretending to be chill before heading to the restaurant. He didn’t know the name of the place, and Malik instructed him to say he had a meeting with Mr. Antonio Soriano.

Even though Harry was a usual frequenter of the neighborhood, it was a bit hard to find the street he needed. The front of Fa Ying’s Yum, the restaurant he was supposed to be, was nothing but a small door guarded by two huge men that asked to see Harry’s ID before letting him come in.

As soon as he stepped into the restaurant, he felt like in some sort of weird Harry Potter alternative reality. The place was massive on the inside, its walls covered by pictures of people he thought to be Muay Thai fighters. There were no tables in that area, but Harry could see a hall with closed bamboo doors that reminded him of traditional Japanese restaurants. From the looks of it, Tomlinson was about to reveal that he was somehow involved with the mafia and had a special task to give Harry.

A smiling receptionist asked him with a strong Thai accent, “How can I help you?”

“Erm, hello, I have a meeting with Mr.… Antonio Soriano.”

“Styles, right? Mr. Soriano is waiting for you, sir,” the lady said, and gestured for him to follow her. They passed through six closed doors, and all Harry could hear was some buzzing. Then she knocked on the seventh, and a man just as huge as the two outside opened it.

“Mr. Styles,” said the man with an Italian accent. So Antonio Soriano was, at least, a real person and not some weird alias that Tomlinson chose to use. “Come in.”

He did. Tomlinson was setting by the table, snacking on something, and beside him was Liam Payne. Malik wasn’t present. There was another security-looking guy on one corner of the room, while Mr. Soriano stayed put on another. The receptionist closed the door.

“Harry Styles, hello at last,” Tomlinson said, getting up and offering his hand. Harry felt his heart skip so many beats he was worried about having a heart attack. He didn’t know how to put it in words without sounding like a Mills & Boon writer, so he resigned himself to thinking that the boxer was even more pleasant-looking that up close than he had anticipated.

Tomlinson was wearing a crimson jumper, with the sleeves rolled up a bit, and black jeans. His hair was carefully arranged in a fringe and Harry almost giggled when he realised that, just as Niall had insisted so much, Tomlinson did smell heavenly.

Harry shook his hand, noticing the tattoos that filled his right forearm.

“I’m sorry for the dodgy looking place, but I guarantee that all affairs that take place here are legit,” Tomlinson said, and then he thought about it a little bit. “Well, at least I can   guarantee that the affairs in _this_ room are legit.”

“Oh, and here I was expecting a picture of my next hit,” Harry retorted, making Tomlinson chuckle.

Payne didn’t look amused, though, when he also shook Harry’s hand. He was still staring at him in the same creepy was as the other day. When they all sat down, Tomlinson handed him a menu that was written in both Thai and English, and Harry quickly skimmed through the meatless options on it. One dish was more expensive than his usual food budge for two weeks, and he really hoped that the bill wasn’t on him.

“Thank you for meeting us here, Mr. Styles,” Payne said in his melodious voice, making Harry wonder if he was a singer as well. “We appreciate it.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you for the opportunity,” Harry said very politely.

“I hope you understand the tricky situation we’re dealing with,” Payne continued, and there was a striking difference between the way he and Malik seemed to conduct business, even though they were both surprisingly young.

Harry read that Payne was hired as Tomlinson’s manager around a month ago, right after the fateful fight with Lyndon. There were loads of rumours surrounding the reason why… what’s-his-name, the old manager who had worked with Tomlinson since his amateur days, had been fired. Though he hadn’t held the position for long, Payne had also followed much of the boxer’s career, being a childhood friend and amateur boxer himself.

“I do. I’ve read the terms on the draft and made a few modifications, but it’s a very enticing proposal and I’d be thrilled to take part in this project. I think something really good is coming out of this, it’s a good plan.”

“Lads, can’t we eat before talking business? I’m actually starving here,” Tomlinson interrupted, gesturing to the menu that Harry still loosely held on his hands. Harry felt his face flush, refocusing his attention on choosing a dish.

Payne seemed less swayed, like a very responsible student who preferred to finish all his papers before drowning in a pint, but he gave in and also started checking the menu. Tomlinson seemed very satisfied with the outcome.

“Antonio, Jorge, feeling up to eating something?” he asked both his guards and both politely replied with “No, sir.”

Five minutes later, they were ordering their food to a waitress marginally more friendly than the receptionist. Harry settled on the vegetarian version of Thai Fried Rice and cold tea, while Payne chose the one with pork. Tomlinson asked for sato and unidentified dishes using their original names in Thai.

“I trained Muay Thai for some time,” he said as matter of explanation. “Quite fascinating, the Thai culture.”

“I’m sure it is… Bangkok is on the top of the list of places I want to visit.”

“Oh, you should absolutely go! There’s this place there, what’s the name in Thai? Mat Bencha… something. The marble temple, that is. It’s such a beautiful place that I almost cried when I was there, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I’ve heard of it! I made some research about it when I was writing a piece on Buddhism. It _is_ beautiful,” Harry said, feeling more at ease now, though it was quite awkward to sit there and chat away while there were two huge men on the corners standing still as statues. Harry wondered if they were like this even when there were no outsiders in the room and bet not – formality didn’t seem to be Tomlinson’s strong suit.

Payne cleared his throat, “So, Mr. Styles, have you been working at the Overview for long?”

“I’m sure you can call him Harry,” Tomlinson interjected, chuckling a bit.

“You can totally call me Harry,” he guaranteed. He was pretty sure the people who would be paying him tons of money could call him whatever they wanted, and then he felt like a high maintenance prostitute.

Which wouldn’t be the worst job in the world if Tomlinson was still the–

“Well, Harry,” Payne repeated, a bit impatient, “tell us all about it.”

“It’s been around a year, I guess? A friend of mine referred me to Callahan, our boss. My friend was already living in London and I was just moving out of Manchester.”

“Oh, you lived in Manchester, did you? Quite close to home,” that was Tomlinson.

“For me too! I’m from Cheshire.”

“Brilliant, I’m from Doncaster. So Manchester is almost exactly halfway between us,” he concluded in a very charming way. Harry would have felt his knees weaken if he wasn’t sitting down.

“Your magazine is quite good,” Payne intervened once again, smiling gently at Harry. “I’ve read that your boss… Callgran, is it, started it on his own after leaving the Guardian.”

“Callahan,” Harry corrected him. “And he did, his dream was starting a magazine that was… what’s the way he puts it? Fresh, honest and not unnecessarily stupid.”

“Which is exactly what we are looking for,” Payne said, sounding excessively delighted now. “You must understand that we need something that portraits Louis in a very positive, _honest_ light.”

“Liam, what did I say about business before food?”

“I’m not talking business,” Payne defended himself. “I’m just praising Harry’s employer.”

Tomlinson gave him a look, and he shrugged.

“So, Harry… Can I call you Harry too?” Tomlinson asked, and Harry nodded. “How about telling us more about _you_? If we’re going to work together for all this time, it’s better if we are on friendly terms.”

Harry would love to know just _how_ friendly Tomlinson would like to get.

“I promise not to disclose any sensitive information about you either,” Tomlinson completed, referring to the contract, and holding three fingers up. Harry laughed, replying that it was a fair trade. “How did you decide to be a journalist?”

“A teacher of mine said I had a way with words,” he explained, “I thought about being a lawyer before that and, ideally, a singer. But that didn’t work very well.”

“Oh, what a shame, I bet you could’ve been a massive rock star! Doesn’t he give you a Jagger vibe, Liam?”

“A little bit, yes,” Payne said, seeming resigned to the idea that they were just going to make small talk until lunch was over.

“Liam here is a singer as well,” Tomlinson continued, passing one arm through his manager’s shoulder. “I try it meself a little bit, but I’m not half as good as this lad. You two could form up a duet.”

“That’d be fascinating.”

“I’ve just been working on a new song, if you’re up to it, Mr. Payne,” Harry said in the most charming way he could.

“No misters for you too, Harry. We’re just Louis and Liam here,” Tomlinson insisted, smiling at him. “Well, and Antonio and Jorge,” he added. Harry felt a bit uneasy at calling his new employers on first name basis, but it did sound right considering how young they were.

“Well, Louis,” he said very slowly, tasting the name on his mouth. “Why don’t you join our duet? I have a friend who plays the guitar amazingly, we could start a boyband.”

“Who knows, maybe after some sato,” Louis said with a broad smile. “It’s good to keep my options open if this boxer thing doesn’t work out.”

Harry felt a twinge of guilty, then. The only reason he was there was because Louis had screwed up on his career and was hopeful on making a comeback, but there were no certainties after those twelve months of suspension. Someone brand new could steal the public’s attention, he could get out of shape and pass the point of no return, and so many other possibilities threatened to interrupt his bright future by the tender age of twenty-four.

“And how did you get into boxing, Louis?” he asked, trying to drive away his thoughts. If Louis didn’t seem affected by what he had just said, neither should he.

“This sounds like a good question for an interview,” Louis said, “Believe me when I say you’ll get tired of listening to that story, and every other story about me, actually. This is your only time to shine, so you can take the spotlight for today. Let’s see… do you have any siblings?”

“Big sister, an absolute delight. She also lives in Manchester. How about–?”

“Hmm, interesting,” interrupted Louis, being serious about his let’s-not-talk-about-me-today resolution. “What’s her name? What does she do?”

“Her name’s Gemma and I’m not… actually sure about what she does? She’s always involved in a new project, last time we talked she told me about this youtuber she was producing.”

“What a creative family you’ve got! Maybe we could set something up when she’s in town.”

Liam touched Louis’ arm then, in a soft but clear message of _please stop talking_ , while Harry was puzzled trying to decipher if Louis was really implying they would become close enough to be hanging out with Harry’s sister.

The food arrived before he could figure it out.

“Well, it was fun playing journalist,” Louis said while they were being served, and they ate mostly in silence after that. Harry had never tasted Thai food that delicious before, and understood the uninviting prices he saw on the menu.  

After the food was over, they finally talked business.

They discussed some modifications on the contract, but the final version kept most of the same clauses. Harry wasn’t allowed to publish anything before verbal or written approval emitted by either Liam or Malik (was he allowed to go on first name’s base with him too?); he couldn’t disclose any sensitive information about Louis’ families, private properties, whereabouts, phone numbers or anything that could attract unwanted attention to the boxer or people close to him.

Harry was prohibited of discussing the work he was doing with other people or media outlets, and while he should be honest in his interviews, he had to talk about Louis in an “overall positive manner”. Which wasn’t something he should agree on, being a journalist whose duty was telling the truth as impartially as possible, but he guessed that Louis was an overall positive person anyhow.

The payments would be made through bi-weekly deposits, but the Employer – that was the way Louis was referred throughout the document, and Harry found it oddly hot – had the right to breach the contract at any moment without further warning if it was discovered that any clauses had been broken.

He would be given access to a private number that should be used to keep in contact with Louis when necessary, and the times and places of their meetings would always be settled by the boxer’s team. His main duties involved doing research and giving pace to the narrative of the documentary, with a yet-to-be-disclosed director.

“So I’m just going to go through the modifications and then take this to my solicitor, it should all be ready by tomorrow. Where can I give it to you?” Harry asked, trying not to get sauce all over the document.

“You can leave it here at this same time tomorrow,” Liam instructed.

Harry knew lunch was over, then. He got up, shaking Louis’ small hand once more. The boxer said that it was lovely meeting him and that he was sure they would make a great team. Liam kindly but unnecessarily offered to follow him to the exit.

“Thank you for meeting us, Harry,” he said as they headed out. The receptionist didn’t react. “I’m sure we can trust you to do the job you’re being hired for,” he completed, sounding almost exactly the opposite of sure.

“Of course, Liam. I’m looking forward to it.”

“You understand this project is an important step for Louis to get his career back,” the other continued, standing outside the restaurant now and starting to sound like an overprotective older brother.

Harry knew he should just nod and say goodbye, but he couldn’t hold his tongue and had to ask the question that was haunting him for so many days before leaving.

“I’m flattered you invited me to work on this project and is giving the magazine an exclusive, but I can’t really put my finger on _why_. I’m sure loads of big guys would love to get involved.”

“Gosh, they sure do, but Louis said he… read your Machu Picchu article and was very impressed by it,” Liam answered with a line that seemed well rehearsed. Harry tried and failed not to look so wary at his new employer. “Well, he also said he was tired of _those bloody vultures_ from the big media and that you’re…” he cleared his throat, “that you seem very competent.”

“Right, yeah. I’ll take that and honestly do my best here. Well, thank you for the lunch once again, see you.”

Liam nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”

Harry waved goodbye and slowly walked to the Piccadilly Circus station. London’s chilly spring was slowing getting sunnier, warmer and shaping into his favourite time of the year. He wondered how his life would be like this time next year, after this Louis madness was over. Would he have adopted a sibling to Olivia? Would he be working on a photography project that made him proud? Maybe he’d have saved enough money to splurge on the extravagant Los Angeles trip he’d always wanted to take.

Harry got further and further into his fantasies while he walked, knowing deep down that life would probably keep going quite the same, except for his surely more attractive bank account.


	4. Chapter 4

“He does smell good,” was the first thing shared with Niall.

“Told you so, what brand is his perfume?”

“I think it’s a Clive Chris– are you messing with me?”

“I’m not! I’m serious here, mate. If there’s one thing that would make my life better, it’d be smelling like Louis Tomlinson.”

“You know what really impressed me? It’s that he knows a bit of Thai. He ordered his food in a very sexy, unintelligible sort of way.”

Niall pretended he was going to faint, fanning himself with a piece of paper. They were alone in the newsroom, and every time that happened, they just sat with their legs on their desks (Niall’s leg was, of course, exceptionally resting on a chair) and chatted away. They didn’t even pretend to be worried about work anymore. 

“I have exciting news myself,” Niall said. “I’m going to the Arsenal press conference next week.”

“Aye, this is great! Did you have to sell your soul for a credential?”

“Not really, a friend of mine knows a fella who went to school with the youngest daughter of one of their press agents,” he explained, then added, “or something like that. And he gave me a push to get in this time.”

“That’s a bit of an anti-climax.”

“It’s because you work with Callahan, I’ve already told you not to take him too seriously. He has a way of transforming every common _I had some contacts and got this interview_ story into an epic tale, it’s his talent.”

“I know right, the other week he kept talking about selling his children to get credentials.”

Niall scuffed, “He’s a Sagittarius, man, what do you expect? He’s not selling any children. In fact, his only child is a lady who lived in the US and was nominated for a Pulitzer a couple of years ago. She’s now working as a correspondent in Ukraine and she’s _so_ badass, you’d love her.”

Before Harry could ask her name to look for her Facebook profile, they heard the elevator bleeping and got quiet. Harry took his leg out of the desk and pretended to be reading a French article on the newest craze for Parisian youth, while Niall typed rubbish into his laptop.

“Hey, Harry,” Perrie greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “How was your fancy lunch?”

“Very productive.”

“Fantastic, I can’t wait for you to start getting the big checks so you can get rounds for everybody.”

“I will pleasantly do so.”

Then she turned to Niall, “Can you stop pretending to be writing and start actually writing? If Callahan comes to lecture us about deadlines one more time today, I think I’m going to snap.”

“I _am_ actually writing,” Niall retorted in a tone that would sound honest if it wasn’t leaving his mouth. “You offend me, Perrie.”

Perrie threw a paper clip at him. “Don’t forget you still have one more leg to be broken.”

Soon the newsroom was full of people and noise again, especially coming from Callahan’s office. He was having a meeting with the assistant of a MP who was not in the least bit happy with the way the magazine had talked about the politician. They were now threatening to sue for defamation, and the assistant was quite loud on his claim.

Harry had a meeting with Akosua, the magazine’s solicitor, at the end of the afternoon. She carefully read the contract clause by clause with him and his boss. There was some discussion about work ethics and conflict of interest, but they could work around it in the end.

“It is a good deal,” was her conclusion, handing him the final version of the contract to be signed. They printed three more good measure, and Harry signed all of them with Callahan as the witness. His stomach kept tingling in a weird way – things seemed a bit more real now.

He extended his lunch to get it delivered on the next day, and seized the opportunity to ask the friendly receptionist a little bit more about Muay Thai history. He figured that it would be nice to show some trivia knowledge to Louis, but then realised that memorizing all those names in a language he knew nothing about would be a bit challenging.

“That’s Samart Payakaroon,” she said, pointing to the biggest picture on the wall. “He’s considered the best Muay Thai boxer ever, which is a grand honour. And that’s a picture of my uncle Ram with him. That one,” she stretched her left arm and pointed to a centred picture on the wall besides her, “is of Namkabuan fighting Ramon Dekkers. Very sad what happened to him,” she added, and Harry wasn’t sure if she was referring to the Thai boxer or the white one.

“I imagine,” he interrupted before she could continue. That was enough trivia for a day. “Has the restaurant been here long? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

“Oh, yes! About thirty years, I think, that’s when my uncle came to England. We grew a lot these past years.”

“You seem to host important people.”

“Absolutely! That’s probably why you never heard of it before,” agreed the smiling receptionist. Harry wasn’t sure if she was rude on purpose, but decided it was his cue to leave.

“Well, thank you again for handing Mr. Soriano the envelope,” he said, tapping on it was last time as if to make sure that all the papers were still inside of it. He waved and left, having once again the feeling that he had just been on an alternative reality.

He was just answering a text from Maya, a close friend from university who still lived in Manchester, when he got another one, this time from Alain. They had mostly made small talk those past few days with a minimum amount of sex talk, and Harry was starting to wonder if Alain had given up on sleeping with him. He wasn’t sure if the prospect made him sad or relived.

But he didn’t have to wonder anymore, because the new text said, _you know how much fun I had the other day…… let’s repeat it? [the dirtiest emoji that could be found]_

He didn’t need to rationalise much before replying. He was happy, he had just got a new job, he was turned on and things didn’t need to get complicated with Alain unless he wanted them to be. Plus, sleeping with the man was much handier than start flirting with someone new from scratch.

_sure, are you free tomorrow? i leave work around 8._

His phone buzzed again in less than five seconds. _sounds perfect! i can come by the magazine and say hello to everybody, i miss them._ Harry had a flashback of his dramatic telling of their story, and how he guaranteed his coworkers that Alain was out of the picture, which made him reply that it’d be better if they met at his place.

It was enough being judged by Niall, he didn’t need the whole newsroom sidelining him.

Work was hectic that afternoon. They were approaching the closing of their next printed edition, which would be out in the last week of May, and his sister sent an e-mail begging him to help her with a Spanish translation she needed for an article of her own. Harry barely left his desk until evening, when he was sure his bladder was two seconds away from exploding. Everybody was still at the office.

Callahan was having a heated meeting with Akosua about the possible repercussions of the threats made by the MP’s assistant. His face was a very interesting shade of red, and the way his arms gestured was fascinating to watch. Akosua, who sat facing Callahan and back to the newsroom, seemed unaffected by his reactions. They were apparently long-term friends, and if even Niall knew not to take Callahan so seriously, she was surely aware of that as well.

Jade was discussing with Leigh-Anne some cuts on her article about the newest bilateral deal between England and India on the import of mineral goods, which could have potential damaging results on India’s economy. Leigh-Anne had the gift of translating complicated economic indicators in such as understandable way that even he, whose only knowledge about money was spending it, could understand it.

Niall was transcribing an interview he had done with an elderly rugby player who now worked on some social projects in South America, which was apparently so touching he was tearing up a bit. Across the table, Jesy and Perrie were intensely debating about the last display of sexism from a famous TV presenter and whether they should talk about it in an article that was about to be published in their printed version.

He suddenly felt a wave of love for all his magical colleagues, amazed that a place like the Overview actually existed and he had the chance to work there. Then something hit his left temple and a small paper ball fell on his desk. He opened it, which said, _stop looking like a dead fish and do your job we’re on a tight deadline here xoxo jesy_.

He looked at Jesy, the wave gone. She gave him a thumb up.

* * *

The thing with Alain was, Harry reflected while sucking his dick, that his carefree ways were incredibly seductive. Alain seemed to love everybody and everything genuinely, had a killer smile and plenty of funny stories to tell. He looked at people as if he _got_ it, as if you could confide him your deepest secrets without being judged.

Harry remembered the first time Alain touched him, the electric feel of those long fingers running up his arm, though his neck, until his was gently pulled in for a kiss. It was quite possible that he was still looking for that first feeling again after all that time.

But he knew now that he wouldn’t get it, that Alain’s intensity was a bit too much for the man to be responsible and caring of other people’s feeling. He wanted everybody to have a good time, but that usually ended up with him being the only unhurt one.

Harry could still give the guy a no-strings-attached blowjob, though.

He paid attention to the moans filling up his room, the way Alain’s body twitched every time Harry changed the speed or licked a different spot, how soft were his fingers pressed against Harry’s nape. Before Alain had the chance to say he was about to come, Harry stopped and whispered in his ear, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

He nodded, and so Harry did. His mind got amazingly empty then – no more theories on why he insisted on making bad decisions, no more thoughts about deadlines he had to meet, or songs he wanted to write, just the pleasure to be thrusting against another man’s body. He pictured Louis for a moment, bellow him like Alain was now, sure that his naked body glistening in sweat could easily become his favourite view. But he didn’t think much of it – the boxer was hot, they had just met, there was no need to overanalyse it.

(Harry did overanalyse it, of course, some hours later when he was alone in the shower while Alain quietly slept on his bed and he softly banged his head against the wall.)

“I love having you inside me,” Alain said when they were panting side by side. “I’m serious when I say I missed you.” He traced lines in Harry’s stomach, going from one tattoo to the other. “I like this new one, the butterf–”

“Are you hungry? I think I have some leftover pizza,” he interrupted, carefully taking Alain’s hand out of him, who gave a long, resigned sigh.

“Sure, it sounds good.”

Harry couldn’t sleep until five in the morning. Instead, he got into the couch with Olivia on his lap and scribbled on some the songs he was working on, wrote three depressive poems and drafted about five alternative endings for How I Met Your Mother. He ended up dozing off on the couch, waking up a couple of hours later scared and disoriented.

Alain was apparently already up, because a great smell was coming out of his kitchen. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard the other man calling, “Harry, tu es réveillé?”

“I can’t do that now, speak my language please,” Harry growled, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. A happy Olivia hopped around him, and he blindly petted her head.

Alain laughed and gave him a smooch. “I was happy to see you didn’t give up on eggs, so I decided to make breakfast,” he said, proudly pointing to the cooktop. Harry felt a sudden wish to kill him.

“I’m working on it.”

“Houlà! Someone woke up in a bad mood. Why didn’t you come to bed last night?”

“Couldn’t sleep, did some writing,” Harry explained, taking a big glass of cold water. That should do the trick of waking him up. “Is the kettle on?”

“It is, do you want some tea?”

“I can get it, thanks. Did you fill Olivia’s bowl?”

“Yes, is that ok?”

“Guess so, she looks fed enough.”

“You see, I’m a very proactive man,” Alain said with a smugly smile. He served two portions of scrambled eggs and offered a plate to Harry. “Shall we eat?”

They ate in silence and Harry felt his grumpiness give in to the delicious meal that was prepared for him. If Alain at his apartment making breakfast was a thing now, he might as well enjoy it.

His mother was in London the following day, and he spent as much time with her as possible considering he was in the middle of closing an edition. They decided to grab some desert after having lunch together, and his mother spent a long time looking at him suspiciously until she finally asked, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?"

“Nothing is going on?” Harry tentatively answered, knowing she would never fall for that.

“You look… weird, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I’m always weird, it’s part of my charm.”

“What is it? Work issue? Guy issue?”

“Work is great, actually. I just got involved with a… very interesting project,” he said, trying to be as vague as possible. His mum, as probably all mums out there, didn’t like vague but it would have to do. “Guys have been a not-so-good idea, as usual.”

His mum smiled and caressed his cheek, “Guys can wait, I’m glad you’re getting involved with new things at work. What’s this very interesting project about?”

“It’s kind of… classified? Not government classified, but let’s say I’ll be spending some time working with a celebrity and I’m not allowed to disclose many details.”

“Oh, that sounds quite fancy. Nice celebrity?”

“It seems so.”

“Brilliant! How about Callahan, is he treating you better now?”

“Yeah, he… He’s a good man, just a bit… too enthusiastic sometimes. But Niall’s been helping me out, and I really like all my coworkers. So I’m pretty much enjoying it, and I’ve been meeting so many nice people that London doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore.”

His mum took his hands on hers and kissed them, and Harry felt loved and protected from all evil for a moment. “That’s fantastic, muffin,” she said. “You do seem happier than the last time I came to visit.”

They finished their Froyo after that, and Harry reluctantly went back to the office. His mum had some family affairs to take care of and would be going back to Cheshire that same evening, but she made him promise he would go home for a visit rather sooner than later.

By Thursday, his week had got so crazy that he took Olivia to Lisa’s apartment, or else the poor cat would spend the whole day alone and without getting any attention. The usual there-isn’t-enough-time-to-finish-up-everything atmosphere took over the newsroom and for the next 72 hours there were no jokes or bantering exchanged, just the relentless typing on keyboards, Jade cursing them for articles full of typos and Callahan sounding like a losing team’s coach.

“You can do it, Styles,” he would say with a bit too strong tap on his shoulder. “Leigh, that’s genius work, keep that up. Horan, why don’t you use– Bloody fuck, can’t this phone ever stop ringing?”

Perrie took charge of supplying them with coffee and chocolate as they worked away through Saturday’s night. It was 3 A.M. on Sunday when Callahan announced they were free to go – the edition had been closed and sent for printing. They had the usual celebratory round of champagne before leaving.

Normally they would all squeeze into Jesy’s car, who would give them a ride, but Niall couldn’t possibly do it with his broken leg. So he and Harry shared a taxi and they both slept on Harry’s bed.

“Doesn’t Lisa get jealous of… this?” Harry sleepily mumbled, gesturing to their close bodies.

“Not really, she actually gets some weird ideas sometimes because she thinks you’re quite cute.”

“Please don’t tell me you guys use me for some sort of sex fantasy.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment on that.”

“Lisa’s good though, I like her even if she had sex fantasies about me.”

“I like her too, buddy,” Niall agreed after a long yawn, patting Harry’s shoulder as the man fell asleep.

* * *

His first meeting with Louis was scheduled for right the next Monday, and Harry could barely get out of bed. His head was throbbing, his whole body hurt and all he wanted was to sleep for five days straight. His last day off seemed to have been ages ago. Even so, he crawled out of bed at six, and was on his way to work two hours later.

This time the text was sent by an unknown number that identified himself as Liam. The address was on the outskirts of London and, from what Harry could gather, belonged to a fancy hotel. A brunch was set for half ten, but since he had to take a train and could potentially get lost, Harry decided it was best to leave as early as possible.

Liam was at the lobby to welcome him. He was on the phone when he spotted Harry, and gestured for him to wait a little bit. Liam was wearing a blue suit that made him look like a superstar, with his carefully styled hair and beard. Harry suddenly felt self-conscious, worried that his floral red shirt was too casual for the meeting – he still wasn’t sure of what was the dress code for the job.

“Hello, Harry, good morning,” Liam greeted him after putting down his mobile. “Have you made a good trip?”

“Yes, I quite like it here. I missed coming to the countryside.”

Liam smiled in a robotic manner and pointed to the lift. “Shall we go? I think Louis is ready to see you.”

Harry felt his palms get sweaty. He had prepared some introductory questions on his laptop that morning, in the hopes that it would help him set the tone for their next meetings, but still felt lost and underprepared. Should he be leading the talk? Or would Louis explain what was the plan and they’d start working from there? Would Liam or any other person be present during their meetings?

The lift went up too fast for Harry’s taste, making him a bit nauseous, and in what felt two seconds they were already getting out of it on the ninth floor. Liam knocked on the door numbered 903, waiting for an answer that took almost a minute to arrive.

“Just a minute!” said a distant Louis.

Harry and Liam waited in silence until the door opened. Then Harry felt the need to hold onto a solid surface, because the smiling person that greeted them happened to be a half-naked Louis, who was wearing nothing besides a towel wrapped around his waist. While Harry felt flustered, controlling his muscles not to unnecessarily embarrass himself, Liam was clearly annoyed.

“Louis, couldn’t you have put on some clothes?”

“Didn’t want to leave you lads waiting,” Louis explained as if it was obvious, making his smile even broader. “Now, hello Harry. How are you doing?”

“Brilliantly.”

“Great! Come on in, you both. I’m going to get dressed before Liam fires me as a client… I guess you can take a look at the menu in the meanwhile,” he said, gesturing to a round table where the menus were put before going inside the main room.

“He’s just had a training session,” Liam tried to justify.

“That’s okay, I understand he must be quite busy.”

“Well, make yourself comfortable and feel free to choose whatever you wish to order. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for the meeting today.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. The idea of being alone for the first time ever with Louis in a fancy suite made him have beyond inappropriate thoughts. He tried not to look at the sofa on the corner of the room, which was bigger than his bed, or else his imagination would get uncontrollably wild.

“Oh, that’s a pity,” he said, failing miserably in pretending that he meant it. Liam nodded and was once more focused on his phone until Louis returned, this time fully dressed in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Sorry I’m late! Ryan was killing me today and I had to take a long, long shower to relax my muscles, or else…”

“Louis,” his manager pointedly interrupted, “as I was telling Harry, I won’t be able to stay for the meeting today, but I’m sure you fellas will have much to talk about.”

“Absolutely! I’ll text you if I need anything.”

“Likewise,” said Liam before going away.

Much like their previous meeting, Louis refused to talk about anything before they had properly ordered the food. It took less than fifteen minutes for the room service to arrive, and Harry was feeling his anxiety bottling up his throat. Being alone around Louis made him feel like he was in front of the sun itself, all bright and powerful and easily able to make him explode.

“How long have you been a vegetarian?” Louis asked after Harry ordered only meatless options.

“Around three and something years, I guess? I used to date a gu– person who was a vegetarian and they taught me tons of recipes. I had always been interested in trying it, so I decided to just go for it, and here I am now.”

“Hmm, you must be a good cook, then.”

Harry chuckled a bit, desperately trying to loosen up. “You could say that, yes. I was actually a baker back when I lived at home.”

“Wow, really? You’re a man of many talents, Harold. Writing, singing and now cooking... I think I made quite a good choice in hiring you.”

“And that’s not even half of it,” he retorted, and it took him one full minute to realise that was flirting. He had just flirted with a man he definitely wasn’t supposed to flirt with, which is response was doing nothing more than smirk at him. He cleared his throat, took his laptop out of his shoulder bag and put it between him and Louis. “Erm, anyway. I prepared some questions to start with, but to be honest I still feel a bit in the dark here.”

“Just interview me like you would normally do. You basically have to gather information about me that makes me look nicer than Mother Theresa, set up a nice interview and soon there will be a full production team to work with you.”

“Ok, hmm… can I record what is discussed today?”

“Go ahead.”

Harry turned on the recorder on both his mobile and laptop – after the traumatic experience of losing a full interview due to technology malfunction, he decided the more, the merrier. Then he asked, “Why now?”

“What now?” Louis retorted, smiling.

“You’ve been always known as a private man, even after your Olympic gold… so what made you decide to record a documentary about your life?”

“My publicist said I needed to do it or everybody would forget about me.”

Harry gave him a look.

“I believe it’s time to show the public the real me,” Louis rephrased, smiling at him. “I’ve realised that people will talk about me regardless, and I’d rather be the one speaking for myself instead of some knobhead.”

“But what motivated your original decision of keeping so quiet about your private life?”

“I like being a mysterious lad,” was the reply.

“Louis.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t help it. Erm, well, the first thing is that I couldn’t get why people were so interested in my life. I’m no celebrity, isn’t this stuff for Kardashians and such? Then I realised how horrible it would be to expose my family to all this unwanted attention, especially my younger siblings. I’m great at talking, but horrible when I have to talk about myself. Plus the thing with… well, I guess there were a lot of factors.”

The whole meeting was focused on the exposition issue, and Louis announced their time was up right when Harry was going to ask about his decision to come out, which he supposed was “the thing” Louis had mentioned earlier. A hotel staff took away the brunch ware while Harry put his things back in the bag. He stood up and waited for Louis to say something.

“I’ll follow you downstairs,” the boxer said like a gentleman, pointing the way to the door.

They were quiet on the way down to the lobby. Louis then shook his hand and said with a bright smile, “That was quite fun, don’t you think?”

* * *

Their next meeting was in Central London, in a gym commonly frequented by high profile people. Harry didn’t talk to Louis much, since there were about five hundred other people in the room with them. He wasn’t sure about what to do, so he typed down a description of the boxer’s training routine – or his public training routine, which was being registered by a photographer inside and some paparazzi outside – the best he could.

Louis was photographed lifting weights that seemed way too big for his lean body, running on the treadmill at 16 km per hour and punching sandbags like it was an easy feat. The people around them chatted, texted and answered calls seemingly unaffected by the incredible amount of sexiness being displayed in front of them, but Harry could barely take his eyes off the boxer.

Then he tried to capture something deeper, such as the resolute expression on Louis’ face, the grace of his movements, the way his eyes seemed to shine with every punch. He was a banned professional athlete trying to keep in shape and on the public’s mind, but it was more than that.

It started to seem that, with Louis, it was always more than that.

Louis waved at him from the treadmill and he waved back, discreetly snapping a picture to send to Niall. His friend would certainly appreciate it.

After his routine was finished, Louis went into the locker room and Harry chatted a bit with two of his trainers. The photographer left, and Louis soon returned drying his wet hair with a towel.

“There you are, Harold,” he said, approaching the men gathering at one corner. “I’m sorry things were a bit crazy, but Zayn said there was no point in training here if there wouldn’t be thousands of HQs pictures to prove it.”

“It was fun to watch,” Harry retorted, accepting Louis’ handshake.

“And I reckon that you’ve met Joshua and Paolo.”

“He did,” said Joshua, who was as tall and lean as Louis. “We were just telling him the ins and outs of the specific training.”

“It makes me look cool, doesn’t do much for my boxing performance,” Louis helped, and laughed alongside his trainers, who didn’t seem offended at all.

“For me, it was basically magic,” Harry intervened. “I can barely hold my balance on a treadmill.”

“Come on, Harry, you’re doing alright,” Louis retorted, pointing at Harry’s muslces. He tried not blushing like a schoolboy. “Besides, running is overrated anyway. One of the most terrible ideas humans ever had, hopping your body around with no purpose.”

“Louis,” this was Paolo, who was close to Antonio and Jorge on size. “Don’t say things like that, running is a beautiful gift we’ve got. For a long time, it was the only way to get from one place to the other, and it’s the perfect way to develop endurance,” he explained directly to Harry.

Louis gestured dismissively. “It’s in times like this that I seriously consider taking on my true calling, which is being a couch potato.”

“Couch potatoes don’t make much money,” said Joshua.

“And you’d deprive the world of your beautiful talent,” added Paolo.

Harry stayed quiet, imagining Louis as a cute potato rolling around the room and spending too much time watching telly, but his thoughts were interrupted by a squeeze on his shoulder.

“Hello, fellas. Sorry I’m late,” said Liam, interrupting their light-hearted conversation. He fit himself into their small circle, greeted everybody with a firm handshake and made two seconds of small talk before saying, “Could I borrow Louis for a moment?”

His trainers nodded in agreement, even though Harry wanted to say _not really, no_. So Louis followed his manager, and Harry awkwardly waved everybody goodbye. He passed through a model and a TV personality on his way out, but barely registered it, already thinking about what he was going to write about the day.

As soon as he sat on the tube, he texted Alain. _let’s get something to drink tonight?_

His mobile soon buzzed, filling him with the anticipation of having a date for that night, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. He had a much more pleasant surprise, instead, because it was actually a text from his friend Maya. _i’m heading to london next week…. can i crash at yours, lil butterly??_

Harry’s day suddenly became a hundred times better. Maya got into his life because she used to date his roommate, and stayed because she was a little ray of sunshine among dodgy people – even after the relationship ended, they kept being close friends.

Maya was now working on her MBA on women-led tech-business, and had some interviews set up in London. Harry couldn’t be happier to have her around for some days and quickly texted her back, setting up the details for her arrival. She was getting to London on Monday morning and would go straight to the magazine to grab a spare key, and from there she’d head to her first interview in a building a few blocks away. Alain’s positive reply got lost in their excited exchange about cooking plans for the four days Maya would spend in London.

He grabbed a sandwich before going back to the magazine, where he was greeted by a beaming Niall. “Guess who–”

“–is going to take his cast off in two weeks,” a very done Jesy completed for him.

“Hey! Way to go, stealing my thunder.”

“That’s all he’s been talking since he got back from the doctor,” Jade explained.

“Congrats, Nialler,” said Harry, patting his friend’s back. “What are we going to do to celebrate?”

“Going out dancing, of course.”

“Just tell me when, mate.”

“We should go to that club close to Quinn’s, have you been there?” Perrie suggested, taking a sip on her apple juice. It’s a massive place, it looks like a celeb club.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it. Lisa also mentioned a place where they serve jelly shots,” Niall said.

“Oh god, I hate jelly shots,” Jesy retorted with a disgusted face.

“I remember how much you hated them that time we were in Spain,” Jade exposed her.

“Speaking of celebs,” Niall interrupted them. “Harry should invite Louis for our little gathering and make an Irishman very happy.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely _not_ inviting Louis for anything. It’d be like inviting, I don’t know, Callahan for a night out.”

“Except Callahan doesn’t strong arms and the features of an angel,” his friend retorted.

“He kind of has strong arms,” Perrie interjected, and they all took a moment to stare at her weirdly. She shrugged.

“I’m not doing it,” Harry repeated, more firmly this time.

“You used to be more fun,” Niall accused, and Harry tried not to take it personally.

“What’s with you and your unrequited boner for Louis?” Jesy asked Niall, making a jerking movement with her hand.

“It’s not like that, ok?” the man replied, laughing. “My feelings for him are pure.”

Callahan arrived from lunch just then, catching everyone red-handed, but seemed in a good enough mood to ignore the lack of working that was happening. Their sales for the month had been the best out of the previous six editions, especially because of Callahan’s piece on Corbyn alongside an exclusive interview. Their online subscriptions were also on the rise and Callahan had started their editorial meeting on Wednesday by saying, “Isn’t it fucking great to be taken seriously?”

Harry told Niall about Maya’s visit before he left the newsroom, and made up an excuse to deny his friends’ invitation for a pint. Alain was already waiting on the pavement when he arrived to his flat, carrying a bottle of wine.

He was greeted with a peck on the cheek. “How was your day, babe?”

“Pretty normal,” Harry said, even if it wasn’t pretty normal because nothing involving his odd arrangement with Louis was normal. “You’re smelling good.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s that new Paco Rabanne one. I can bring it over one day if you want to try it.”

“Please, do! I saw an ad for it the other day and it was very… persuasive.”

Alain laughed. “That model what’s-his-name is very, very cute, no doubt. You’re cuter, though.”

“You say it because he’s not the one sucking your dick,” Harry remarked while they took the lift.

“You make a good point,” Alain agreed, pulling him by the waist and kissing his neck. “But I plead my case that you’re still cuter.”

Alongside the wine, Alain had also brought some pasta and sauce. He cooked quickly while Harry played with Olivia, then they ate, drank and gave each other blowjobs. Harry couldn’t remember why he had been so annoyed with the man the other day – their dates, or whatever those were, had been going fine. Alain was treating him well, cooking him food and making him orgasm. What else could he ask for, really?

It was with this thought in mind that he let Alain’s arm involve his body, pulling Harry’s back to his chest, fitting their folded legs. He tried not to mind the twitch feeling taking over his stomach.

* * *

Maya and Harry hugged very tightly, and they left the building to grab lunch together even though it was barely eleven. She looked more beautiful than ever, with her new short hair and red business dress, dark skin glittering under the almost-summer sun.

They caught up on each other’s lives – Maya was still going strong with her new girlfriend (“Anne hasn’t been my ‘new girlfriend’ for at least a year now, love”) and planned to publish a book with the research and interviews she had been doing. Harry reluctantly told her about Alain and got judged for it, but was later praised for his work with Louis (he reckoned it wouldn’t be that bad to share the news with Maya, who couldn’t care less about famous people).

He also showed her some unfinished songs he had been working on, and she especially liked the one he had started composing on a tipsy night out. “Does it have a name yet?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really, I’m not quite happy with it… I mean, don’t you feel like something is missing in the chorus?”

“I think this ‘things change’ is not working...” Maya thought for a bit. “How about ‘night changes’?” she suggested, humming the song and changing the lyrics. “It’s got a nice ring to it, hasn’t it?”

Harry tried singing it by himself and it _did_ fit much better. He took Maya’s hands from across the table and kissed them. “You’re a true angel. We can change it when we get home.”

“Don’t mention it, I can grab a share of your earnings after that first record-breaking album,” she retorted, winking at him. “Hey love, I’m really sorry to interrupt our lunch, but I’ve got to get going. My interview is in less than an hour and Ms. Langley is not the waiting type.”

“You can go ahead, lunch is on me today. It’s a welcome gift,” Harry stressed to cut short his friend’s protests. “Are you sure you still remember how to get to my flat?”

“Yeah, think so. I’ll just take an uber if I get lost,” she got up and smiled at him one more time. “See you later, baby. Wish me luck.”

Harry soon left the restaurant as well, having great trouble to focus on the article about Nigerian art he had been working at. Leigh-Anne had shared with him some productivity tips, so he downloaded an app that blocked everything on his mobile for twenty-five minutes and now wanted to throw it against the wall because there were still seven minutes left until his next break, but he achingly needed to check his instagram.

Another software was being used to block the internet from his computer. All he had open were eight academic articles on different Nigerian artists whom, at the moment, Harry hated deeply.     

“You’ll get used to it,” Leigh-Anne guaranteed him when she saw him biting his nail. “Isn’t all that yoga you do supposed to make you zen and shit?”

“Yoga and the online interaction with strangers make me zen and shit. Niall, can’t you lend your phone to your greatest mate?”

“No can do, man. I installed the same apps here in a moment of weakness.”

“I hate us.”

“Just six more minutes, Harry.”

So it was only after those long, agonizing minutes that Harry saw the text he had received from Liam Payne, asking if he was available for a meeting with Louis tomorrow afternoon. After checking with Callahan, he quickly confirmed the meeting and received the location, the same hotel they had met before. Harry felt very MI6-like.

(He was also very pleased to see that his artistic picture of a hydrant had got seventy-two likes.)

But difficult as they were, Leigh-Anne’s tips actually made him quite productive and he finished the day with a fine draft of his article. He would take the next morning to edit and add a few things, and then send it to Jade before his arrangement with Louis. He felt very proud of himself.

Maya was already in his flat when he arrived home, followed by Niall and his girlfriend. Niall and Maya had seen each other just once before, but they hugged like old mates. Harry was the chosen one to cook dinner, since the four of them would never fit in the kitchen, and he happily prepared a pie with the leftover vegetables he had in the fridge.

After they had finished eating, Niall stretched himself to grab Harry’s guitar and played a few Bruce Springsteen songs before asking to see what Harry had been working on. Together, they finished up the song that was officially titled _Night Changes_ , by Maya’s suggestion, and Harry felt like the happiest person on Earth.

He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such great people in his life, and such a cute cat like Olivia, who was now napping on his lap while he sang, but he was very grateful for them. Before Niall put the guitar away, he quickly recorded a video of his friend playing and posted it on instagram _._

Maya went to bed as soon as their guests left, but Harry stayed up a bit more reading. In the book, one of the main characters could talk to cats and he spent a long time imagining how Olivia’s voice would sound if she talked. He bet it would be a sweet, high-pitched voice. He wondered if Louis had cats, what Louis would look like as a cat, and then he fell asleep besides Maya.

* * *

The commute to the hotel took longer than the first time. Harry dozed off in the middle of his reading and almost missed the station he was supposed to get off, elbowing through the other passengers to be able to get out in time. He was panting a little bit when he entered the hotel, trying to settle his hair with one hand and holding his mobile with the other.

“Hello, good afternoon,” he said to the concierge. “I have a meeting with—”

“There you are, Harry,” Liam’s voice startled him, and he saw the man crossing the lobby. He was wearing a suit, as always, but his tie was undone and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No worries, you’re right on time. Louis is waiting for you in his room. I reckon you remember the way?” Liam asked. There was something unsettling, almost mechanical, in his tone that made Harry uncomfortable.

“903, right?” Liam nodded. “I’m sorry to intrude, but… Is everything alright?”

“Surely it is,” was the answer, making Harry certain that it was quite the opposite. He nodded back and headed to the lift anyway, pressing the bottom for the ninth floor.

Louis answered quickly this time. He greeted Harry with a big smile and a firm handshake, but he carried the same dark circles as his manager. “It’s great to see you, mate. Do sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair. Harry felt twitchy, and once again asked if things were okay.

Louis shrugged, sitting in front of him.

“Yeah, everything’s alright. Just some… legal issues, I suppose.”

“Over what?”

“I’d rather not comment, Harry.”

“Of course,” Harry replied, feeling a bit ashamed. He opened up his laptop and turned on his recorders. “Ready?”

“Born ready.”

“Well, I think it’s important to establish how your career started. I’ve read a few things, but couldn’t really get much on your early days… I saw that you used to play football quite a bit, and was even in talks to buy your local team some time ago, but I couldn’t find much on your boxing roots.”

“Wow, you journalist people really are fancy stalkers,” Louis said, sounding impressed. Harry was not sure if he was supposed to laugh. “Yes, this is all correct indeed.”

“Then… why boxing?”

“Because I wasn’t a good enough footballer to become pro, at first,” Louis said. “And because I realised that punching people felt much better than kicking a ball around, later.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are there any anger issues you want to share?”

“There are not... anymore.”

“And how did you make the jump from ‘punching people feels good’ to ‘I’ll make a living out of it’?”

“It’s sort of a boring story, really, but I’m sure you’ll find a way of spicing it up.” Louis sipped on his cup of tea before continuing. “So, one day I got involved in a fight with some wankers who called me a fag and punched two in the face before my math teacher stopped me. I got suspended for a week, me mum almost had a heart attack. She swore so much that she was using words I didn’t even know existed. But the thing is that this math teacher was a big boxing fan and he told me I had a killer uppercut. Mind you, I had no idea what an uppercut was. Then he insisted that I visited a friend of his who had a gym and could give me some tips. I told him no, thank you, I’m going to be a footballer meself, but he gave me the directions anyway.”

Louis took another sip on his tea, but Harry barely blinked. He was fascinated by the way Louis’ accent seemed thicker now that he was talking about his past.

“Thing is, it happened again. I got involved in another fight and my football coach threatened to cut me off the team. I begged the principal not to tell me mum, and she obliged because she had a soft spot for me and this time I hadn’t broken nobody’s teeth. But she gave me an ultimatum as well. Reckon I was the hot topic in the teacher’s room that day, because that same math teacher looked for me and gave me the toughest pep talk I’d heard until then.”

“Saying things like, hey, you’ve always been a good kid. Don’t disappoint your ma like that, all these sort of things. He talked again about his friend’s gym, said he would go there with me, that I could put all the anger I felt to good use. I was sixteen, then. I’m not even sure if I was really angry, or what was I angry about. Well, you’ve been sixteen, you know how it is. Anyway, I was sure I didn’t want to be a disappointment, and all this learning to be a fighter sounded appealing, so to that gym I went.”

Harry waited for the conclusion of his story, but it didn’t come. Louis finished up the tea and looked at Harry, as if waiting for a comment on everything he had said.

“This is… quite a good story, Louis.”

The boxer made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Just a stupid kid was who luck enough to find someone who cared.”

“It’s not just luck that _you_ also cared enough to become a pro.”

“I’ve always liked sports, even with all my wanting-to-be-a-couch-potato talk. I had fun training, I loved challenging myself, and I do have to say that having a six-pack is quite the way to seduce fine gentlemen,” Louis added with a mocking wink. Harry felt his face flush uncontrollably – it was the first time they mentioned Louis’ sexuality, and he wasn’t anticipating that Louis would do it so freely.

“I… can imagine.”

They spent the rest of their time talking about Louis’ initial years of training, and how he fully switched from football to boxing. Harry was so entertained by the interview that he jumped a little on his chair when someone knocked on the door. Just then he realised that they hour together was over.

Louis was looking more relaxed now, but when he opened the door to Liam, his manager’s face seemed to be even more sombre than before. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Tomlinson has another appointment to attend,” he said very formally. Louis raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, sure, I should be heading back to London anyway. Thank you for your time, Louis. I hope things… settle down quickly.”

“Thanks, Harry. Oh, there’s an event on Thursday that I’d like you to attend, Liam will text you the details later.”

Alain texted him soon after he left the hotel, inviting himself over. _sorry man, busy week… meet you at the weekend, maybe? x_ , he replied, not in the mood to explain that a dear friend was staying over and he didn’t feel comfortable being with Alain around his friends. His mobile buzzed again in less than a minute. _just at the weekend? i miss you!!_ The message was thoroughly ignored.

Later in the evening, Maya and him prepared a vegan quiche that was pretty enough to get almost two hundred likes on his instagram. They ate and then facetimed together with Anne, Maya’s girlfriend. She told him all about her research while they were in bed, and how nice it was to share a flat with Anne, and how happy she was with her life. She kissed Harry goodnight and he lay awake beside her, thinking about how wonderful would be to feel that everything fit together.

* * *

The event that Louis had mentioned was a charity one in which many sportspeople were involved. He wasn’t sure why he had been invited, but at seven p.m. sharp he was at the steps of the Sheridan Hall, wearing formal attire and holding a press pass.

“Mr. Styles, you’re at table sixty-one, almost on the right corner,” informed a smiling receptionist as soon as he entered. She checked his pass, which this time contained his real name and face, and she gestured for him to go in. He couldn’t control a wide smile – he felt like a proper journalist doing proper journalistic things which were actually nice, instead of dreadful press conferences.

His excitement dropped a bit when he got to the table. He didn’t really know anybody, apart from a blonde lady he was sure he had seen somewhere before; they greeted him with a mechanic “Hiya” and he sat next to the blonde lady, his safest bet of getting friendly with someone.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” he asked politely, sipping on his champagne.

“Wow, this is a terrible line,” she answered, not tearing her eyes away from her phone.

“It isn’t a line, don’t worry. I’m just trying to make some friends on this fine evening.”

She eventually put the mobile on the table and turned to him, squinting her eyes to examine his face. “Oh, you’re that bloke from the Tomlinson conference, aren’t you?”

Harry also remembered, then. She was the first person to ask a question at the conference, the one from the Guardian. He offered his hand, “That’s it, I’m Harry. Harry Styles, from the Overview.”

“Theresa Cunningham, the Guardian. What a mess that conference was, hum? Well, I suppose it wasn’t worse than usual.”

“I’m not sure, I’m not very familiar with press conferences myself.”

“You must be new to sports journalism, isn’t that right? I hadn’t seen you around before that.”

“You can say that I am. It’s also my first time at a charity event.”

“It can be quite fun, actually. There’s free champagne, everybody is dressed up, and folks are the nicest they’ve ever been because nobody wants to be the knobhead in a charity event.”

He raised his glass at her, toasting to her words.

“Sad shit Tomlinson got himself into,” Theresa continued, quickly typing something on her phone. Harry was happy that she was making small talk with him, since he would hate to spend the whole night keeping to himself.

“Tricky situation, but I’m sure he’ll find his way around it.”

“And the poor chap can’t catch a break, can he? Now with this stuff about his old manager.”

Harry looked at her with a confused expression; she couldn’t know, of course, but he had just been with Louis a couple of days ago and had no idea of what she was talking about – that is, until he remembered Liam’s and Louis’ dark circles and Louis declining to comment on some _legal issues_.

“Haven’t you heard?” she asked him, and he shook his head. “Word is that Tomlinson’s old manager is suing him for ten million quid for breach of contract. Ten million quid, I swear to you. It’s all hearsay so far, but the bastard who gets their hands on the hard evidence will have a hell of a scoop.”

“But that’s… why would his manager do something like this?”

Theresa shrugged. “It’s quite easy to get money-hungry, I suppose.”

Harry’s suit felt itchy over his skin. He couldn’t remember neither the name nor the face of Louis’ previous manager, but he hated the man with all his heart in that moment. He emptied his glass of champagne and got up.

“Is everything alright, Styles?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to the loo.”

“Sure… Go easy on the champagne, ok? Not a good look to be a drunk journalist on duty. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Harry smiled and nodded, then started looking around for any sign of Liam Payne or Louis himself. He needed to talk to Louis, that’s all he knew. He wasn’t sure of what to say, and couldn’t help in the least, but that didn’t stop him from roaming around the ever more crowded party looking for his employer.

After more than ten minutes, he finally caught a glimpse of Zayn Malik talking to a group of important-looking people. He had to take a moment to appreciate how incredible Malik looked in that three piece suit before approaching him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, lightly touching Malik’s shoulder, who turned to face him. “Mr. Malik, I’m Harry–”

“Styles, I’m aware of who you are. I hope you are enjoying the evening?”

“I am indeed, thank you. I was just wondering if Mr. Tomlinson has arrived, and if I could chat with him a little bit.”

Malik stared at him suspiciously. Harry stared back, not fully able to comprehend how someone could have such a perfect bone structure.

“Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” Malik said to the people he had been talking to, guiding Harry back to the crowd. “Follow me, Styles. Louis is preparing for the auction, but I’m sure he can accommodate you for a few minutes.”

Louis was drinking backstage with eight different celebrities when Malik knocked on the door and called him. Harry felt starstruck for a moment, seeing how easily Louis fit in that environment; it was easy to detach Louis from his famous persona, which was in full display at that moment. It was as if Harry hadn’t comprehended how powerful and well-known Louis was until seeing him casually chatting in a room followed by the likes of David Beckham.

“Oh, hi Harry, I’m glad you could make it,” Louis greeted him with a handshake, stepping out of the room. He seemed happier than the other day, or maybe it was just the effect of well-applied make-up. Harry felt immensely foolish now – what would he say to him? If Louis was being sued or not, it was none of his business and the boxer could clearly handle it. “How is it going?”

“Everything is fine, I just–” both Louis and Malik looked at him, waiting for a conclusion. He decided to be honest because what else could he do? “I’ve just… I’ve heard a rumour that your previous manager is suing you and I got… angry, I guess? I just wanted to check if you were ok.”

Louis smiled faintly, while Malik didn’t seem amused in the slightest. Harry felt like a schoolboy who had just done something very, very silly.

“Thank you for your worry, I’m fine.”

“I’d advise you not to pay any attention to gossip regarding my client, Mr. Styles,” said Malik in a way that made it clear that if any word on the rumour hit the press, he would blame Harry.

“I have no intention of doing so,” Harry guaranteed, and took three steps back. “Enjoy the evening, Louis.”

“You too, Harry. Hopefully I’ll see you at the end of the event? I’d like to make a few statements about it.”

“Of course, you know where to find me,” Harry said, feeling more stupid than ever.

“All settled then, right?” Malik interjected, pointing the corridor to Harry. “The event will start soon, Mr. Styles.”

Louis got back in the room with the group that, together, was probably worth more than the GDP of a few countries. Malik unnecessarily escorted him out of the backstage, and Harry hated him a little bit. Disregarding Theresa’s advice, he drank three glasses of champagne on his way back to the press table.

“You look pissed,” Theresa said as she laid her eyes on him.

“I’m feeling fantastic,” he guaranteed. Halfway through the event, though, right when they were auctioning the gloves Louis wore during his first Olympic match, Harry got up to secretly vomit in the toilet.

* * *

Harry woke up to a bazillion of unread messages and notifications. His head pounded forcefully, he hated everything and Olivia was licking his face as if she knew he was in misery. It was six twenty-three in the morning and it took him five full minutes to remember where he was (his flat, thankfully) and what had happened (champagne, too many bloody glasses of champagne).

Most of the notifications were likes on a drunk selfie he had posted on instagram, which horrified him because, even though he looked quite cute, it totally killed his account aesthetics; and the other part came from drunkenly interacting with people on twitter. For a moment his heart raced, thinking that he had shared way too much information online, but luckily his drunk self wasn’t stupid enough to give away any secret details. 

He had a text from Maya, letting him know that she had arrived home in Manchester safe and sound and thanking him for the stay; another petty one from Alain, who was still mad because it was apparently unacceptable for Harry to have a life that didn’t revolve around his dick; and a third one from Niall in response to a selfie Harry had sent, with his thumb up while Louis was speaking on stage in the background.

The fourth one terrified him – it was from an unknown number, but it contained a picture of a shirtless man with the caption, _Great meeting you yesterday, Harry. Fancy grabbing a pint tonight?_ Harry absolutely did not remember meeting the man, and was sure he didn’t _want_ to remember as well. He blocked the number and deleted the message.

And, finally, his last text was also from an unknown number, full of emojis. _theresa here, love!! told you to lay low on the drinks, rookie mistake… i hope you get home in one piece. see you around xoxoxo_ He added the number, and sent a text thanking her for everything. He couldn’t remember it, but was almost sure that she was the one who called him a taxi last night.

What made him hate his life even more was the post-it attached to his laptop, which said _article on c. event by 9 a.m._ He hadn’t been invited to the event only to drink free champagne, of course, so now he would need to write a piece about something he could barely remember while having a banging headache.

Admitting defeat, Harry e-mailed in sick, but promised he would send the article to Jade by half eight. He took two pills of Norufen, hoped his head wouldn’t explode, and turned on his laptop. He started piercing the night together through fans’ accounts, paparazzi pictures, early articles and the few videos he recorded on his mobile.

He giggled when he realised he had a video of David Beckham himself on his own phone, making a speech to thank the attendants for their contribution; he included a quote from the man in the article and kept watching other speeches, part of the auctions, until he got to one containing Louis.

It was a touching speech talking about the importance of recognising mistakes and seeking forgiveness. Even though it was a well-rehearsed speech, Louis made it sound honest and heartfelt. Harry also included a direct quote from him, right after Beckham.

There was nothing particularly compromising on the phone, apart from some drunk videos – one of which included Theresa, that by the looks of it hadn’t taken her own advice so seriously as well – and the article was coming out fine until he saw the last video, three minutes and thirty-seven seconds long, recorded under terrible lighting but still with a very much visible Louis Tomlinson in the preview.

Harry’s heart raced. He did remember Louis mentioning something about giving a statement after the event was finished, but had no recall whatsoever of that statement being made. The time stamp showed it was recorded at almost midnight. How many glasses of champagne had Harry drunk by then?

After taking a long, deep breath, he pressed play and prayed to the entire universe that he wasn’t about to watch himself being an exceedingly twat.

The video started with a shaky Louis and Harry’s voice asking _wait, is it on now?_ and then giggling for no reason. It was already painful to watch, but Louis had patiently replied “Yeah, I guess so. At least that little light is on.”

“Ouch, sorry,” Harry had said with more giggles and more trembling. “What a night, huh? I could not believe how gorgeous Beckham is that up-close. I mean, not that I’ve gotten up-close with him like you have, I don’t even know what I would do in this situation, but–”

Harry wanted to chew on his mobile. That was a gay comment. That was a very, very gay comment and it couldn’t be taken as anything besides gay and that surely wasn’t the appropriate way of coming out to your employer.

“He’s out-of-this-word hot, right?” Louis had interrupted him with a clear smirk under the dim light. “So, can I go?” he continued, pointing to the camera.

“Yeah, dude, go on.”

_Oh my god you did not call Louis Tomlinson_ dude _,_ Harry murmured to himself, hating every second of that bloody video. Olivia looked up curiously at him and his gesturing hands.

“Wait, just go… The light is shite here, mate, give two steps to the left. Perfect, beautiful, now go,” drunk Harry instructed, slightly pushing Louis in the right direction.

The boxer proceeded to give a royalty-like statement, highlighting the importance of contributing to different causes, especially those involving economically underprivileged children, and how honoured he was to be part of the event. “I hope to be a role model to these children, following only a righteous path from now on,” he concluded, saying very firmly another obviously rehearsed line.

The video cut with Harry saying, “That was absolutely beautiful, I’m so sad these dickheads keep–” but he didn’t know what the dickheads were doing, because that was when he stopped recording. Harry blinked at the screen for a few minutes, wondering how he could have forgotten a full interview with Louis, and hating himself a tiny bit more before posting the video on the magazine’s twitter.

At eight thirty-four, Jade confirmed that she had received his complete article. Harry quickly closed his laptop and sank on the sofa, trying not to feel guilty for getting a day off to nurse an irresponsible acquired hangover. Things have been hectic, he told himself, slipping into sleep already. It was okay to take a break.


	5. Chapter 5

Taking a break seemed impossible, though. June started with incredible weather and horrible everything else, especially with the approaching of the Brexit referendum, the only topic everybody could speak of. On their first editorial meeting of June, they spent two hours talking about their coverage of the referendum. Callahan stressed the need for balance in their reporting, but also wanted to make their “remain” position clear and declared that he would rather stick a fork into his eyes than giving _that gobshite Farage_ another platform.

His boss approved Harry’s idea of making a series of interviews with foreigners living in the United Kingdom and British-citizens living in other European countries, to highlight the positive aspect of multiculturalism in the continent. He emailed a few of his old university mates who he knew were living abroad, and took note of looking for foreigners living in London, Manchester and possibly other places in the UK. 

Niall spent half the month panicking about his immigrant status, having nightmares that he would be kicked home, and the other half covering Euro 2016’s matches in France. He finally took the leg cast out two days before the championship started, and they all went clubbing to celebrate the day before he boarded. He texted them as soon as he landed, informing that it was a daunting task to throw up in the tiny toilet and nurse a hangover thousands feet up in the air. 

(He insisted so much for Harry to fly there one weekend, to see Ireland playing Belgium, that Harry eventually gave in even though he was snowed under work. It was his duty to comfort his friend after Ireland’s defeat by three-nil.)

Then there was Alain, who was an avid football fan as well and invited himself over every time France had a match, bringing a pack of beer and a small French flag. Harry wanted to kill him at first, but the celebratory sex after the team’s win was good enough for him to allow Alain to keep coming.

And, of course, there was Jesy and Jade, who invited Harry for some get-together filled with beer every time England had a match, which made him juggle to watch Ireland, England and France play even though he cared for none, just because he didn’t know how to say no.

Between the sports and the politics, Harry had barely time for anything else. He didn’t touch his guitar, was stuck in the middle of the book with the talking cats, and felt like he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in nine years.

On the top of it all, there was Louis.

Things hadn’t been awkward as he feared after that dreadful charity event where Harry got himself drunk and recorded an embarrassing interview with the boxer, nor had he been sacked. Actually, Louis didn’t mention the event at all, apart from commenting that he quite enjoyed the Overview’s article about it. Harry smiled and nodded, pretending he had behaved like a gentleman for the whole evening, and they moved on to talk about Louis’ training for the Summer Olympic Games of 2012.

If Harry was tired, he couldn’t imagine the degree of exhaustion Louis was feeling. In the middle of June, some tabloids published speculation that he was being sued by his former manager and on the verge of bankruptcy, followed by dozens of paparazzi pictures of a knackered-looking Louis circulating on the Internet. Malik was furious, which was made obvious by the way he couldn’t control himself and used a vast lexicon to curse at a half spread on The Morning Light dramatically entitled, **THE END OF THE TOMMO-ERA**.

“Have you ever been to Greece, Harry?” Louis asked him, tearing his eyes away from his publicist.

“Not really, no.”

“I have a place in Santorini. Absolutely stunning little island. Sometimes I dream about leaving all this shit behind and just moving there. I’m a fairly decent fisherman, you know? It would certainly prevent Zayn from having a heart attack at such young age.”

“He’s doing his job, Louis. He cares for you. We all do, actually. It’s not fair that people think they can print and say whatever they want about you.”

“Isn’t it?” Louis rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking ten years older. “I did take an illegal substance, and I breach my contract with my former manager, but not before consulting with ten different solicitors to make sure we were safe on the legal ending. Apparently, the wankers let something slide.”

Harry bit his lip, not knowing exactly what to say. He wanted to tell Louis that everything would be fine, that he would make a triumphal comeback and still be the stellar boxer he had always been. He wanted to say that it would be lovely visiting Louis in a tiny Greek island, if running off there would make Louis happy. He wanted to ask why Louis had really taken Nandrolone in the first place, because cheating to win didn’t fit his personality at all.

Most of all, he wanted to stretch his hand until it reached Louis’ from across the table.

But he didn’t do anything besides remaining quiet.

* * *

Apart from Niall, who was still in France until the beginning of the following week, they were all in the magazine on the day of the referendum, working relentlessly and showing different degrees of distress. When the results started to come out, Harry was half trying to process the absurd of it, half trying to tranquilize a panicking Niall, who was sure he would now be barred from reentering England.

He had never seen Callahan look so disappointed, nor had he heard their phones ringing so insistently. There were complaints from unhappy voters, xenophobic messages being posted on their online articles and an overall apocalyptical feeling. Leigh-Anne narrated to them the decline of the stocks in the East, but there was not much they could to besides drinking a mix of vodka with Red Bull and working the night away.

By seven in the morning, when Harry was half drooling on the keyboard of his laptop, his mobile buzzed with a new text. He jerked awake and had difficulty in reading the small letters. It was from an unknown number and it said, _not sure about those greece plans now xx L._

His heart pounded so fast that he was afraid the combination of Red Bull, disappointment, lack of sleep and an unexpected message from Louis Tomlinson at seven in the morning would kill him. The UK had chosen to leave the EU and now Louis apparently had his number – it was too much to process.

His fingers were shaking as he added the number to his contacts. _you can always fake-marry a greek person and get their olive card_ , he typed, too hype on the energy drink to fret about being inappropriate _._ He also read all his other messages, tweeted a disappointed emoji and retweeted some angry comments from Niall.

The hours on that dreadful Friday were slow and painful. By the end of the day, Harry couldn’t care less if the UK decided to leave the globe, if it meant that he could go home to sleep. A neglected Olivia ignored him when he entered his flat, but he couldn’t summon up the energy to make amends, so he only filled her bowl with food and water before spreading himself into bed still wearing his work clothes.

He was almost dozing off to sleep when he got a text back from Louis, saying _you offend me, harold! i’m sure i could get at least one broad-shouldered, sunbathed, dark-haired greek man to real-marry me._

Which made him wake up at the end of the afternoon drooling on his phone. He had a horrible migraine, having to negotiate with himself for twenty-five minutes straight to get out of bed. In the midst of the chaos of the referendum, Harry had almost forgot that the week was far from over – right on the next day, he would be attending his very first Pride Parade, not only for his personal pleasure, but also to cover it for the magazine. He arranged a meeting point with Jesy, who would be working with him, and some other acquaintances.

He decided it was best for his sanity not to linger on the topic of Louis getting together with hot Greek man, and left the conversation die. Channeling the very little energy he still had to the Parade was much more productive.

His disappointment and exhaustion from the past couple of days were slowly replaced by the excitement of attending the event. He took some time to thank all the powers that be for the fact that Alain was back to France to attend a friend’s wedding, because Harry didn’t feel like sharing that moment with him.

When Harry was reinvigorated enough, he splashed on the floor with Olivia by his feet to design a sign for the Parade. After some hasty drafts, he ended up choosing to write _Love Always Win_ in glittery letters on a rainbow background. It took him almost three hours, but he was so proud of the final result that not only did he post a picture on instagram, but also on facebook.

It was the beginning of the afternoon when his phone buzzed with yet another text from Louis, a very short one which simply said, _nice sign_. Harry once again feared for his health and imminent risk of heart failure, feeling itchy with the knowledge that Louis Tomlinson, _the_ Louis Tomlinson, Olympic gold-medal winner, had somehow access to his instagram, as if texting him wasn’t surreal enough.

Thanks to the wonders of the impersonality of online communication, the boxer didn’t see the thirty shades of red that Harry became at the thought of being stalked on social media by him. Instead, it allowed Harry to nonchalantly answer, _who’s the fancy stalker now?_

_i have some ace research skills myself, i needed to check if you weren’t a psycho or something before hiring you, right ??_

_btw i’ll be coming around tomorrow, i’ve always wanted to attend pride_

_see you there, maybe?_  

On the inside, Harry was screeching and wishing to swallow his mobile. On the outside, he replied _, i’ll be a bit busy bc i’m actually covering the event, but i’ll surely look around for you x_

_that’s great, bc i don’t think we’ll get another chance of meeting before july. caught up on this legal shit [angry emoji]_

_you’ll find a way out of it soon!_ , Harry sent before adding, _heading to bed, good night!! xxx_

He lay awake in bed for long time, breathing in and breathing out, mindfully thinking of every part in his body, feeling his sore muscles and heavy head, trying to slowly process everything that had happened in the last weeks.

It wasn’t very productive, though, because the only thought in his mind was how right it felt to casually chat with Louis at the end of a long day. He twitched in bed, as if the problem was an uncomfortable position. Then he tried not to think at all by meditating, failing once again by an intrusive smiling Louis who insisted on taking over his brain.

Cursing at himself, Harry got up and went to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of cold water. His whole body was on fire, and he knew very well it had little to do with the pleasant summer weather, and much more to do with the uncontrollable way he was picturing Louis in bed, wearing nothing but his pants while he texted Harry about his Pride Parade sign.

Louis was hot, of course. This was pretty much a scientific fact. And in a parallel universe where getting on with the boxer was actually under the realm of possibilities, he wouldn’t blink an eye before getting his hands all over the other man. But this was the universe where Harry was a rookie journalist who should never even met Louis in the first place, let alone work for him, and having Very Inappropriate thoughts about his employer was the cherry on the top of a cake made of horrible ideas.

It felt so cliché, lusting after the gay man he worked for. So cliché that Harry had already experienced it once, and knew fully well those things wouldn’t possibly end up well on his end. But all the reasoning wasn’t enough to stop Harry from tearing away his pants, grabbing some lube and touching himself while picturing Louis’ mouth around his cock.

* * *

Saturday morning was blissfully sunny. Harry spent a full hour trying to decide on an outfit that sent the message of ‘I’m a professional covering this event’ and ‘I’m also a gay man celebrating pride’ in equal measures. He ended up choosing floral shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt. He put on his favourite shades, rounded ones with white outlining, and carefully styled his hair.

During the whole process, he thoroughly ignored the way his body still seemed sensitive from the night before. He didn’t think about Louis, didn’t wonder what Louis would be wearing or how he would behave in the Parade, how brilliant it was for the boxer to be getting involved with the community in the midst of all the shitness going on with his life.

Harry took a full body picture and sent it to Niall, who rated it ‘10/10 would have babies with’ before leaving to Portland Place. He had lunch together with a bunch of people, most of whom he didn’t know, before heading to the growing gathering of Parade attendees.

It was a unique feeling marching on the streets of London chanting about being out and proud, about being stronger than hate and fear, about accepting every person as they were, especially after all the terrible things that had happened that month. Harry cried at every proposal he saw, got a selfie with Sadiq Khan and recorded tons of different people on snapchat.

The highlight of the afternoon was getting a ten-minute interview with one of the organisers when they were close to Trafalgar Square. He left the interview with a rainbow painted on his face, courtesy of a friendly drag queen with a loaded arsenal of body paint, which led them to have a very productive conversation about makeup and skin care.

Louis was almost absent from his thoughts, with everything else that was happening. That is, until he heard an insistent buzz right after Khan’s speech.

Harry looked around, searching for the source of the buzz, with his heart pounding faster already. The boxer wasn’t far away, discreetly protected by two bodyguards and waving to the crowd. He was wearing a striped white-and-blue t-shirt, white shorts and casually styled hair. There was a rainbow bracelet on his slim wrist. Harry felt his knees weaken.

“Isn’t that our new best friend, Harry?” Jesy whispered in his ear, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look.

“It seems so, yeah. How does my hair look?”

Jesy raised an eyebrow at him and once again he cursed himself because that wasn’t a proper ‘yeah, that’s the man adding up to my income’ reaction. “You look gorgeous, babe. Do you reckon I could get a selfie with him?”

They waited a bit on the sideline, seeing countless pictures being taken and countless pieces of paper being signed. Louis seemed quite comfortable in hugging and kissing people on the cheek, as if he were a popstar. Harry ignored the twitchy feeling in his stomach, and patiently waited for the crowd to disperse before approaching the man.

“Harold, there you are!” Louis greeted him with open arms, but stopped mid-way and did not hug him. Instead, he received an awkward pat in the arm. Harry forced a smile and greeted the two bodyguards, the same ones that were on the Thai restaurant the first time they met. “Are you having fun, pal?”

“Absolutely, everything looks incredible! Care to share a message with our snapchat viewers?” he asked, failing not to sound like a defective robot. Both Louis and Jesy stared at him weirdly.

“Er, sure,” Louis said and waited for Harry’s sign before saying, “Hey everyone, this is Louis Tomlinson. It’s an absolute honour to be here at the Pride Parade with all these brilliant people. Stay happy and stay strong, because love always wins!”

Harry posted it with trembling hands, feeling his heat flutter. Before he could embarrass himself any longer, Jesy introduced herself to Louis and asked for a selfie. Louis pulled her by the waist and opened a bright smile, blushing a bit when she said that her family was a big fan of his and they were standing by him.

There was a new wave of people demanding Louis’ attention, then, and all Harry could do was wave goodbye. They left the event a bit after that, reuniting with the rest of the group, and they went on to a pub to drink themselves silly.

Harry was snogging a fine Spanish man in the pub’s loo when he felt an insistent buzz in his pocket. He blindly reached for it and sobered up a bit when he saw that the nine new messages were all from Louis. He scrolled down while having his neck bitten.

_hey_

_it was great seeing you_

_loved the rainbow painting_

_and ur shorts_

_sorry i couldn’t really talk_

_things were a bit nuts_

_but i had plenty of fun_

_how about u ??_

_well, i’m off now, see you x_

Harry read it again and again like a poem, moaning probably louder than he should.

* * *

As unlikely as it seemed, life went on even in the midst of the chaos of uncertainty. Niall came back to England on Monday night, lamenting Ireland’s elimination from the tournament but relieved that he reentered the country with no problems, and they grabbed lunch together the next day.

“Lisa told me she’ll marry me if they threaten to ship me back,” Niall said while munching on his sandwich.

“That’s a good reason as any for tying the knot, I suppose.”

“I was thinking about proposing anyway.”

“Really?!” Harry said, beaming like a child who just got an unexpected gift. He loved weddings. He loved his friends getting married. He loved love, mostly. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“Can you believe it? If you told me a year ago that I’d be thinking about marriage now, I’d have laughed at your face. But I don’t know, man, I really love Lisa, being with her feels so… right. I reckon we could work in a long-term basis.”

Harry controlled his wish to pinch Niall’s cheeks.

“I’m sure she feels the same way. Are you thinking about moving in together?”

“Sort of, when we’re not so pressed for money and can actually afford a decent flat.”

“You could move to her place with the girls,” Harry suggested in a jokingly manner.

Niall snorted, “You want to see me as a dead man, do you? I’m ninety-eight percent sure her housemates hate me.”

“C’mon Nialler, how could they hate someone with such a cute face?”

“Once I peed on the toilet seat and apparently they still hold a grudge.”

“Okay, that’s just gross,” Harry said, disappointed at his friend’s lack of proper restroom manners. “I’m a big believer in peeing seated.”

“I don’t get the logistics of it, though.”

“There are no logistics, you just have to fit your willy in the toilet.”

“I don’t know, man, it sounds too complex for me, I’d need to go through a youtube tutorial first or something.”

They lost track of time catching up, cursing at the bloody right-wing politicians in the country and discussing the reasons why Ireland was the greatest, until Harry received an audio message from Callahan saying, _I hope to see both your arses back here in ten minutes_.

Harry spent most of his week aiding in the research for both Leigh-Anne’s and Jesy’s articles on Brexit, one on the economic angle and the other on the political angle, the leading articles for their July printed edition. For every free trade agreement that he read, knowing that the UK would no longer be part of it, his heart ached a little bit. He also went through short biographies of countless Members of the European Parliament he had never heard of so far, but apparently played a big role in their lives, and tried to make sense of different economic indicators. He couldn’t, so he resigned to copying down the information Leigh-Anne asked him and handing it to her.

His second failure of the week was letting his petty side take over completely. Hearing nothing from Louis since the day of the Parade, even after writing him some very thoughtful texts, he had to resort to stalking the man online. It quickly became a morning routine to google Louis’ name and check any new articles that were posted about him.

The repercussions of his Pride Parade attendance were great, and Harry emitted a muffled squeak when he saw himself in the background of one of the pictures from the day. On the other hand, there was a suspicious prevalence of the lawsuit brought against Louis in the tabloids.

Louis had been quite active on social media, posting pictures of himself on the Parade, all waving and smiling, which Harry shamelessly liked. In the last few days, Louis had talked bit about football on twitter and posted an encrypt message of a closed fist emoji as well. Not only did Harry stalk him online, but he also took the time to read the comments on instagram (mostly positive, mixed with the usual homophobic ones) and go through entire threads on twitter speculating the meaning of the emoji.

Before the end of the working day, he summoned up enough courage to send Louis a text saying, _what do you call a fake noodle?_

He was already in bed, regretting every decision he had ever made in his life when his phone buzzed with a text from Louis.

_no idea, what ?_

_an impasta_ , Harry sent, still debating whether he should just put his mobile on fire.

_good thing ur sticking to journalism buddy_ , Louis’ reply came almost immediately. And then, _had a shitty day, i’m glad this high quality comedy is making it brighter._

_you see, i’m a man of many talents_.

_really, tell me about it_

_first of all, i have such a large knowledge of puns and bad jokes that it could fill up a full encyclopedia_ , Harry typed furiously. _i also managed to lick my elbow once._

_i’m pretty sure that’s actually the hardest feat in the world_

_yeah, your olympic gold’s got nothing on my elbow licking skills_

They made some more small talk before Louis said he needed to get into bed, wishing Harry a goodnight and saying that Liam would get in touch the following week to schedule a meeting, as they prepare to publish a profile on Louis’ on the Overview, fulfilling the first part of their arrangement.

Harry kept repeating to himself _be cool, be cool, be cool_ , but it seemed as if the cool had been surgically removed from him. Instead, he masturbated furiously as soon as he put his mobile down.

After coming, he laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering how worse this Louis-situation could get and what he could do to stop it. He was too old to be pining for a man he couldn’t have. He needed to be a grown up about it and let the fluttering feeling in his stomach every time he pictured Louis’ face out to die.

If only he could stop thinking about what a nice ring _Harry Tomlinson_ had to it.

Which made it even harder to process the picture splashed across many celebrity gossip outlets the next morning. It contained a smiling Louis, who was holding hands with a young man whose face was somewhat familiar, but Harry couldn’t quite place. His heart pounded strongly and he did nothing more than stare at his phone for five minutes.

**HIT UP BY LOVE! Boxer “The Tommo” Tomlinson walks out of charity event hand-in-hand with rumoured new beau** , was the headline on Juicy News. Harry hastily scrolled down after regaining control of his senses, trying to understand what the hell was going on. His brain could not register how happy Louis seemed to be with this man, and Harry felt a bitter taste of betrayal.

They were chatting just the night before and Louis had mentioned no man, no pap pictures announcing a new relationship. Wouldn’t he have told Harry something? But Harry had to remind himself that his connection with Louis was strictly professional, that Louis didn’t own him any explanation about his life. The rest of it was all in his silly little head.

_Tomlinson, who got banned from boxing early this year, has kept an active profile in other sport-related ventures. On Monday night (4), he attended an event for the charity Gloves & Hopes, of which he is a patron. _

_Looking smart in a blue three-piece suit, he seems to be more out and about than ever. After coming out as gay last year, Tomlinson attended the London Pride Parade at the end of June and was now spotted leaving the event hand-in-hand with former Hollyoaks star and rumoured boyfriend FINN MARSH._

_The lovebirds seemed overjoyed as they headed to a black car, waving for the fans outside. The new relationship seems to be the silver lining after a difficult semester for Tomlinson. Besides being banned from boxing due to the use of illegal substances in his match for the lightweight title against TIMOTHY LYNDON, it was also reported that his former manager SAMUEL COOK is suing him for breach of contract._

_Marsh has been going through a luckier tide, set to star in the new ITV period drama LATE NIGHT DREAMS. The show follows the story of a troubled man who finds redemption after falling in love with a servant. LATE NIGHT DREAMS broadcasts on the third of August._

_Best wishes to the new couple!_

Harry bit down his mobile, controlling the urge to throw it against the wall. Finn Marsh, that was the name of his new nemesis. He vaguely remembered watching him on the soap opera on lazy vacation days back in Manchester, thinking about how cute he was with his freckled face and dimpled smile, but now Harry hated every inch of his being.

Eight minutes later, Jade posted a screenshot of the same article to their work group chat, commenting _hmmm someone is getting it on_. Harry wanted to throw a paper clip at her. Back in France, Niall asked _why didn’t you share the gossip w us, harry???_ and it was too much to take before noon.

Taking a drastic measure not to ruin all his friendships at once, he did the unthinkable: turned off his mobile and worked non-stop until his stomach loudly protested its lack of food. It was almost four now, and Harry went out to grab something to eat still phoneless.

Because of his resolution, it was already evening when he saw Liam’s message, scheduling a meeting for Thursday morning in a Chelsea address. Harry wanted to answer, _No thanks_ , but forced his fingers to type, _Okay, see you there_.

Wednesday wasn’t much better. In the morning, Louis posted a post-training selfie, looking tired and sweaty, and a couple of hours later he posted a very casual black and white picture of Finn Marsh sitting on an armchair, reading a book. The caption said, _the best quiet afternoons._ It got twenty thousand likes in a couple of hours. Harry breathed in and out seventy-eight times, ignoring the articles that the couple-y picture had spurted.

To test his patience even more, Alain decided it was a good moment to say he was back in England, how about grabbing lunch together the next day? Harry agreed despite his best judgment, but ignored the happy messages that followed, burying his mobile under the pillow instead.

Before heading to the blissful lane of the sleepers, where no man could make him suffer, he finished editing his cover of Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac and posted it on his youtube channel. Then he spent half an hour chatting with strangers on grindr that he had no intention of meeting, just for the thrill and detachment of it, and finally dozed off feeling just as shitty about the world.

* * *

“Harold! Long time no see, what’ve you been up to?” a smiling Louis asked him. They were sitting in the study of probably the most posh house Harry had ever been, whose ownership was unbeknownst to him. But he knew that a single chair there was worth more than his monthly income.

“Not nearly as much as you,” Harry replied in a sweet voice.

If Louis detected any of the poorly hidden sarcasm, he didn’t show it. Instead, he was chatty and charming as usual, and after ten minutes of small talk, Harry didn’t feel resentful at all. All he wanted to do was to keep talking to Louis. It was also then that he realised he was inexcusably underprepared for their meeting, having just a rough draft of questions.

Feeling like the worst journalist on Earth, he decided to suck it up and start with the thing he had been holding back since their first meeting.

“Well, Louis, with this recent… unfolding,” and this was the closest they got to discussing the existence of Finn Marsh, “I’d like to discuss your process of coming out, if you don’t mind. Even before the cover of Attitude, I mean. I’d like to hear about your internal, let’s say, turmoil.”

Louis remained quiet and looked at him for what seemed like long minutes, but probably wasn’t more than a few intense seconds. Harry’s heart raced.

“Sure, Harry, bring it.”

“When did you find out about yourself?”

“Hmm, I’d say around fourteen or so? I couldn’t quite name it, but I knew something was different with me. I knew I stared longer than I should at the legs of the lads playing football, that being touched by a lad thrilled me more than kissing girls in the parties we had. But I didn’t really want it. I didn’t want to be more different than I already was, so I ignored it. Internal turmoil is a good way to describe that period.”

Harry refrained from saying he was sorry, because he was sure it would sound condescending; his own discovery process was much easier, and it hurt him that so many of his peers had experiences ranging from sad to traumatizing when coming to terms with their sexuality. He waited for Louis to continue, which the boxer did after sipping on his tea.

“I had some girlfriends back then, but I had trouble connecting the reactions I saw on bad porn videos with the way I felt when I was with them.”

“And then there was a boy,” Harry guessed, not able to hold back, but Louis laughed.

“And then there was a boy,” he agreed. “I was in Reading for the festival, spending 24/7 high or drunk or both, thinking about giving up on training, about just backpacking through Europe and working odd jobs, because I couldn’t let go of the feeling that something was missing. That something was wrong with me and I could never be happy if I didn’t find out. Happens that this missing thing was a fine gentleman named Stuart. He hit on me, we got to his tent, and the rest is history.”

“It sounds unbelievable for me now, but until that moment I legitimately didn’t know I was gay – it didn’t really click. I didn’t know any gay people, I didn’t have the gay uncle everybody else seemed to have, it was just lil’ lost me. The idea had never crossed my mind. But then, as soon as I got on with that boy, all the puzzle pieces seemed to snap together in this big, glittery _that’s it!_ moment. It was a lovely feeling for about thirty seconds, before I started having a breaking down because of it. Don’t I sound like every cheesy line in a gay movie?”

“No, Louis. I’m very glad to be hearing your story.”

Louis twitched on the chair and drank some more tea. Harry was started to think that drinking tea was almost his defense mechanism when things got a bit uncomfortable, but he didn’t give any signs of wanting to stop.

“I eventually came to terms with myself, told my family, and got full support from them. But then this boxing thing happened and everything got messy once again. Messier than ever, actually.”

Louis didn’t mention any names, but related some instances of homophobia during his boxing career that made Harry sick to his stomach. He also steered away from discussing about any romantic relationships, including his current one, and Harry had to swallow his urge to know if there was any truth in the rumours about Louis and Julio Calderas, the footballer who he seemed to be very close up until some time ago.

Harry felt like they were just getting started on their chat when there was a knock on the door, and Liam stuck his head inside the study before being invited to come in. “Sorry, Louis, can I borrow you for a second?”

He didn’t look distressed, but his tone was incisive. Louis looked at Harry, as if he had the power to decide if Louis could go or not, and Harry nodded, closing his laptop. “I think we’re pretty much done for today, right? Thanks for the chat, Louis, I think this was our most productive meeting so far.”

Louis shook his hand, following him to the door, and said, “I’d love to hear your story someday.”

Harry tried not to picture them both in their pants, smoking a blunt and casually discussing their coming out experiences, _The Weekend_ style, but of course he failed. It seemed like a waste not to picture it. Well, maybe only he would be smoking – Louis could be drinking beer or whatever alcoholic beverage he was into. They would spend the whole afternoon talking, and then would lay together on the sofa debating on whether to watch a bad comedy or an artistic movie on Netflix, but it didn’t really matter what they put on because they’d start fooling around twenty minutes in.

He passed by three men, draped in expensive-looking suits, on his way out. Liam guided him through the door, while Louis was shaking the men’s hands. He decided it was best not to dwell on who those people were, whose house he was at, or anything involving the business-side of Louis’ career, really. He would find nothing but a banging headache, most certainly.

Still thinking about how domestic and amazing his life with Louis could be, he headed back to the magazine and answered some pending emails before Alain texted him saying that he would arrived at Magnifico, the restaurant where they would meet, in about twenty minutes. Harry breathed in deeply, told Callahan he would be back again in an hour and half or so, and took an uber to the restaurant.

Alain was looking great, sunbathed and with a well-groomed stubble. Harry suddenly realised how much he did not want to spend any time with the man.

“Salut, mon amour,” said Alain, greeting him with a peck on the lips. Harry controlled his wish to slap him and let himself be guided into the restaurant. They chose a corner table and ordered an entrée.

“I missed you,” continued Alain, grabbing Harry’s hands from across the table. “How are you doing?”

“Erm, things are really busy but I’m doing alright. How was the trip?” Harry asked out of politeness.

“Saint-Tropez was incredible, though, you really should have come. It made me wonder what the hell I am doing in this rainy city,” he laughed a bit. “So Pierre - that’s my friend who was getting married - set up this beautiful tent which he decorated himself. Pierre is a very talented artist, did I show you any of his works? And Nolan - that’s his fiancé, well, husband now - composed a song for him and I just cried so much. I must have the video of him performing here somewhere, let me just–”

“Alain,” Harry interrupted, touching the man’s hand so he would stop scrolling.

“What? Are you sure you’re okay? You look… strange.”

He took a deep breath before blurting out:

“I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Alain blinked at him. “What.”

“I said I don’t–”

“You’re not really going to do this _right now_ , are you? I’ve just got back to this shitty city because I wanted see you, Harry.”

Harry felt bad for a second, because he knew it wasn’t the time nor the place to do that. But he hadn’t thought it through; for the first time in forever, he had spurted out what he was feeling before he had time to talk himself out of it. He tried to calculate what would be worse – to resume their lunch as if nothing had happen, or dramatically storm out of the restaurant. All his courage was gone, though, so the only thing he could was to stay put and stare at Alain.

“I love you. You do know that, right?” the man went on. “I get it that I hurt you, and I know that’s why you get so cold and distant sometimes, and I don’t tell you how much that hurts me too… because I want to be with you.”

Well, that one made Harry actually snort. What a joke he was, putting up with Alain’s shit, unable to translate into words the feelings tangled inside him, feeling shaky after hearing an unexpected _I love you_. But he knew he was making the right, long-due decision. Even though he couldn’t put into words the disappointment and hurt he felt for being deceived, nor the way he was fed up of Alain inviting himself over, of having to meet every time the man wanted to, of doing basically everything he was proposed to do because Alain was overwhelming and he didn’t have the energy to say no; even though all that got stuck on his throat, he didn’t give in neither and kept a resolute look.

“It’s funny for you to say it now that we have no commitment with each other,” he calmly retorted.

“What’s wrong with me wanting to have fun? It didn’t mean I liked you any less back then, or that I don’t want to be with you now.”

“You could have done whatever you wanted, but then you shouldn’t have lied to me just so you could keep fucking me.”

“I didn’t _lie_ , Harry. I just… I wanted to be with you so badly, it’s not my fault if you’re incapable of dealing with things like an adult.”

The entrée arrived and the smiling waitress wished them _buon appetito_.

Harry started laughing, uncontrollably so, and Alain stared at him some more. “Look at the ridiculous situation we’ve got ourselves into,” Harry said, spreading butter on a slide of ciabatta bread.

“I don’t see it as ridiculous.”

“Do you even realise what you do, or is it a natural thing?”

“What I realise is that you’re being an unfair dickhead,” Alain retorted.

Harry bit his lip not to laugh again. He felt incredibly detached from himself, munching on the slice of bread, ending things in the worst possible manner just like it always happened, going through it all like he was nothing more than an observer.

“I’m sorry, Alain, I really am, but I can’t– I didn’t mean to say it here, now, but that’s how I feel. I didn’t ask you to come back to this _shitty city_ , I didn’t ask you to contact me again after all these months, you just did what you wanted to do, as always.”

“You seemed happy enough that I was back when you were getting your dick sucked.”

“Yes, thank you, you have fantastic blowjob skills. That washes away everything else,” he said without blinking an eye. “Now, what _I_ think we should do is finish eating, go home and not talk to each other again in a long time, possibly forever.”

That’s what they did. Harry’s whole body started shaking as soon as he sat in the uber on his way back to work, and he held back tears. It was barely two, but he felt like the day had lasted seventy hours already. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there are heavy mentions of homophobia and homophobic slurs towards the end of the chapter.

“You fancy him or something?” his sister asked him when they were skyping one evening.

“What.”

“You’ve been talking about Louis this, Louis that for half an hour non-stop. It sounds worse than your crush of Dylan-what’s-his-name back in school.”

“Hooton. And I do _not_ fancy him,” Harry lied, “I’m just caught up on this project right now.”

“Yeah, whatever you say. How about discussing some _important_ things, like what we’ll be getting aunt Shelley for her birthday.”

“Fuck, I completely forgot about auntie's birthday. When is the party again?”

“On the 13th, Harry, I’ve told you five hundred times, for God’s sake! If you don’t get your arse down Cheshire for her birthday, I’ll personally pull you by the hair all the way from London.”

“Wow, okay, of course me and my lovely arse will both attend, no need to be rude.”

“I thought of getting her a piece of china.”

“That’s what we get her every year.”

“Well, and she seems happy enough with it, doesn’t she?” his sister retorted. She had great practical skills that were much envied by Harry. She got things done, went to places, and never got herself involved in drama. Harry wondered if she was some sort of alien or just good at hiding what she didn’t want anybody else to see.

“Ok, I’ll see what I can find at Harrods and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Great, it’s settled! I’m off then. Love you, take care, don’t flog the dong too much over Louis.”

“What does that even _mean_.”

His sister smirked and waved him goodbye, disconnecting the call. Harry turned off the laptop and fell on his bed, mindless petting a sleepy Olivia. It was merely Wednesday and he was already exhausted, his muscles were sore from a petty attempt of jogging early in the evening, and a cheesy Spanish song about loving someone forever against all odds was stuck in his mind.

The jogging thing had been suggested by his yoga instructor, Nevenka, who told him he was holding on too much dark energy and compromising his road to enlightenment. “You should try going out doors, in the fresh air, feeling the heat on your skin,” she said while sharing some iced tea with him.

He thought it was a great idea, and planned to go jogging on Saturday morning, but instead he woke up at two with a banging headache as a result of celebrating with Niall and Lisa their signing a new lease. His mum was in London on Sunday, then the week started, and it lead to him having a miserable rainy evening jog on Wednesday.

That didn’t stop him from sending a selfie to Nevenka in the best lighting he could find, saying, _great advice, nev!! i feel brand new!_

Summoning up the energy to get out of bed, Harry dragged himself to the bathroom and finally took a much needed shower, washing his body and his hair with no rush. Later he wrapped a towel around his hair, another one on his waist, and turned on his laptop for a quick check on the latest news and social media activity.

Two hours later, he was still naked and reading time travel conspiracy theories on Reddit, and was only taken out of his internet stupor because Olivia painfully stretched his leg.

“Ouch, Olivia, what the hell,” he complained, holding her on his lap. She chose to sit on the laptop keyboard instead, and Harry took it as a sign that maybe it would be a good idea to get up, blow his hair, and go to sleep.

And that’s what he did, until being jerked awake by his ringing phone. It took him some seconds to understand what was happening, where he was and why everything was so loud. Olivia darted to the bathroom, scared by the sound, and Harry tried to control his panic over seeing an unknown number flashing on his screen. It was four-six in the morning. Nothing good could come out of a four-six in the morning call.

“Je t’aime, Harry, I really do,” Alain’s undeniably pissed voice told him.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm down his racing heart. He could hang up, he could block the number as he had done with other people, but he had a feeling that Alain would keep contacting him unless he burned down his chip.

“Go to bed, Alain.”

“I’m at this guy’s place and I can’t stop thinking about you,” Alain continued, his accent so thick it could barely be considered English. “Can’t I come over? I really think we sh– yeah, I’ll be right back,” that last part was said to someone else. Harry rubbed his forehead. “I want to see you.”

“Please, don’t. I have to wake up in like three hours and go to work like us regular adults do. You’re just managing to piss me off, and I really think you should just go home, wherever that is.”

He rang up, turned off his mobile and blocked the outside world by pushing his blanket over his head. He didn’t know what to expect after last time, but he honestly believed that Alain wouldn’t be so insistent. “If he keeps coming after you, I’ll truly punch him in his pretty little face,” Niall stated in a very resolute tone, when Harry told him what had happened (he had to tell him, should have told him since the beginning).

Twenty minutes later, his doorbell rang. Harry wasn’t even surprised. He hastily put on a t-shirt before opening the door to a completely shitfaced Alain, who could barely walk straight but was still carrying a bottle of rum firmly on his right hand.

“How did you even manage to come upstairs,” Harry said, pushing him away when Alain tried to kiss his cheek. The bastard still managed to smell heavenly even after all that drinking.

“A very nice old man was leaving to work and let me in.”

“Well, you can’t be here.”

“You look so good, Harry, so good,” Alain retorted, giving up on the cheek and trying to take Harry’s hand on his own. “I’m so sorry about what I–”

“You _can’t_ be here,” Harry insisted, managing to sound firm even though all he wanted to do was sit and cry. “I don’t want to resort to the police, Alain, but I swear to God…“

“I can crash at your sofa, no hard feelings. But maybe I can have a shower before that?” Alain was still ignoring everything Harry told him as if the situation was perfectly acceptable.

“Don’t you have a place to go back to?”

“Not really, I had a fight with the man I was staying with.”

Harry rubbed his forehead some more. He didn’t need a drunk, homeless Alain invading his flat right now. Not ever. He didn’t know what to do, besides feeling a strange mixture of anger and pity.

“Have the bloody shower, then,” he finally said, taking the rum bottle out of Alain’s hand and slightly pushing him towards the bathroom. He had to refuse five times Alain’s advances, who was trying to push Harry under the water with him, and waited outside for the man to come out.

Alain crashed on his sofa still half wet. It was well past five now, and Harry couldn’t sleep a wink anymore. Instead, he read a little bit, scrolled down Louis’ instagram feed for what was probably the seventieth time and saw the new pictures of Jupiter being released by Nasa.

At seven, his unwelcome guest was still snoring loudly. Harry did some easy yoga poses to stretch his muscles, prepared something quick to eat, changed into his work clothes and finally sat on a chair opposite to the sofa. He threw a paper ball on Alain’s head, succeeding to wake him up after the fourth try.

“Oh,” was everything Alain said when he looked at Harry.

“Oh is a good start,” Harry replied, mentally repeating that there was no need to be rude, he only needed to be assertive enough to get rid of Alain for good. “I want you to go now.”

“Fuck, I’m. I don’t know what to say, Harry, I’m so sorry about what I did. I should have never done that.”

“I know, I just… I’m tired, you scared the hell out of me, and I need to go to work. So I’d be very happy if you just… left.”

Alain tried to apologise some more, and each time he spoke it only managed to make Harry angrier. He finally went away, and Harry blankly stared at the now empty sofa for long minutes before leaving as well.

* * *

“Harold, hello, take a seat,” a smiling Louis said, pointing at one of the empty chairs in the same study they had met before, at the posh Chelsea house. This time, though, they weren’t alone. “You’ve already met Zayn and Liam, of course. This is Ghalibi Shamsi, one of my solicitors,” he pointed at a thin man with a big moustache at the far end of the desk, “and Maria Czajka, from HBO Sports. Ghalibi, Maria, this is Harry Styles, the journalist who’s been working with us. He’s the one who wrote that piece I showed you.”

Harry shook their hands, and sat in the place that Louis had pointed, right in front of the boxer. He felt uneasy in the middle of those very important-looking people, regretted his uninformed choice for casual clothes and held back the urge of excusing himself out of the meeting he had no idea what would be about.

They briefly discussed the profile that had been published about Louis on the Overview a couple of weeks before and made five seconds of small talk before Louis changed the subject by directly asking him,

“ _Never not a fighter_ , what do you think?”

“It’s got a nice ring to it,” Harry replied, “but what are you talking about again?”

Everybody chuckled in a very polite, mechanic way, and Ms. Czajka explained that it was the working title for the documentary. It was scheduled to broadcast the following year, right after the end of his suspension. That was what the fancy meeting was about, then – they were past pre-production.

“We would like you to keep onboard,” Malik said. “You have done a good job so far, and you have a few more weeks to work on the storytelling as we start shooting.”

Apart from the introductions, Louis remained quiet for the rest of the meeting, letting Malik and Ms. Czajka explain how those first weeks would work and some early marketing strategy. Terry Brown, famous for directing music videos for celebrities, was on board as the director. They were in talks with James Corden, an old acquaintance of Louis’ mother, to lead the main interview, and there would be an increase on Harry’s workload. The whole thing was discussed in a very practical way, as if they were talking about a work of fiction and not the real life of a real man that was sitting right there with them.

“Apparently the Tommo brand is still very valuable, even if Tommo himself has been a naughty boy,” Louis quietly commented, while serving tea for both of them and masterfully shielding them from others.

“Are you comfortable with this?” asked Harry, quickly texting Callahan to let him know the meeting was going to last longer than expected.

“Sure, it looks thrilling to be followed around by a camera twenty-four seven.” Harry gave him a look, and Louis laughed quietly. “I really want you to be part of it,” he added.

“Well, I’ve signed a contract, haven’t I?” Harry replied in a playful tone, disguising well the shrieking voice inside of him that was delighted by the professional opportunity as much as it was for the chance of being constantly close to Louis. “Speaking of contracts, any developments on the lawsuit?”

Louis visibly tensed up, and Harry tried not to regret the question. He was tired of pretending that the lawsuit didn’t exist, even though it made its way into gossip websites every other week, and didn’t get why Louis was so defensive about it. Well, he did get it, because several million pounds were on the line, but the boxer seemed to react exceedingly weird to it.

“I don’t think I want to talk about that, Harold.”

“I reckoned you’d say that, and I get it. It just bothers me to see you in this situation.”

“Well, that’s what I get from accepting to work with a knobhead like Cooke. It’s going be a non-issue soon, though. We’re going to settle.”

“Why? Wasn’t it a fundamental breach? You did nothing wrong, it isn’t fair.”

“Look at you, sniffing out with your journalistic ways. His side had better arguments than my side, so it’s not really a matter of fairness.”

“Excuse me, lads,” said Liam, getting in the middle of them. Only then did Harry realise they had been standing so close that his shoulder touched Louis’. “Czajka is calling us back.”

The meeting lasted half an hour more, and by the end of it Harry was convinced that the documentary was a great idea, that it would be a masterpiece and everybody would fall even harder for Louis. He was also a tiny bit infatuated with Czajka; she was a very well-spoken woman, and seemed to be a fantastic producer. Well, it wasn’t by chance that she worked for the HBO. Harry felt accomplished when they traded business cards at the end of the meeting, and she firmly shook his hand.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Styles,” she said, before going on to chat with Mr. Shamsi.

Harry was already crossing the hall on his way out, being yet again unnecessarily followed by Liam, when the bell rang. Liam looked through the peephole before opening the door to Finn Marsh.

It was always weird meeting celebrities for the first time. Marsh was as good-looking in real life as he was on the telly, even more so because his face was more rugged without all the lighting and make-up. He wore a cap that covered half his face and an unsuspected black sweatshirt, looking like an absolute normal person and not the kind of heartthrob that made him famous.

Marsh seemed surprised to see him, examining Harry from head to toes with those dark eyes of his before saying, “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Finn Marsh.” His voice was more thunderous than Harry remembered from his soap opera days.

"Nice to meet you too, I’m Harry Styles. I’m involved in the production of the documentary,” he said awkwardly, feeling a desperate need to justify his presence in the house.

“It’s good that you’re acquainted now,” Liam interjected. “Mr. Styles was just leaving. I think Louis is waiting upstairs, Finn.”

Only in the taxi did it hit him how weird it was for Louis to meet his boyfriend in that place that gave Harry a mob movie vibe; thinking back, he recognised one of the armchairs in the study as the one featured in Louis’ picture of Marsh that was posted on his Instagram, which most definitely wasn’t organic.

With his heart already pounding faster, he shamelessly typed into Google, _louis tomlinson finn marsh pr stunt._ He had been following celebrities for long enough to know when something was fishy about a relationship, and those two _screamed_ fishy, didn’t they?

He had to dig deep, past the countless fan accounts dedicated to the new happy couple, horribly nicknamed Larsh, and casual-looking pap pictures that he had somehow missed, until he started getting to the interesting things. One tumblr user claimed to know Marsh’s real boyfriend because their sister’s friend worked with the bloke; another said they had served the hot couple in a Camden Town café and they barely interacted with each other apart from Marsh whispering something on Louis’ ear and holding his hand for five seconds. Harry gasped - that was exactly one of the pap pictures he had seen.

Feeling smarter than Poirot and Holmes put together, Harry kept opening tab after tab. He was so focused on his research that he overpaid the taxi driver, then almost tripped on his way into the building. He had barely exited the lift and entered the newsroom when he signaled to Niall, _you, me, loo, now_.

Niall looked at him weirdly, probably because of his flushed face. He didn’t care.

“Is everything alright?”

“Niall. I think Louis is in a fake relationship.”

Niall raised an eyebrow.

"Ok, so…?”

“Well, so if it’s fake, it’s…” Harry hadn’t thought that far. What if Louis and Marsh weren’t an item for real? What difference would it make in Harry’s life? He felt himself deflate like a balloon and stammered a bit more. “…fake?”

“Is there something you want to tell me, mate?” Niall interrupted, still looking at him suspiciously, and Harry felt as self-conscious as a child caught stealing some candy out of a cupboard.

“Nope, not a thing.”

“You’re not developing inappropriate feelings for him, are you? Oh my god, you didn’t _sleep with him_ , did you? You’d tell me you slept with Louis Bloody Tomlinson.”

Admitting defeat, Harry mumbled, “I didn’t, but maybe I wouldn’t oppose to it.”

“Well, mate, get in line, nobody would oppose to it. But you know this is a sure path to get screwed over, right?”

Harry leaned on the bathroom sink, unable to process what he was feeling or put into words how he and Louis seemed to effortlessly _fit_. He was so hopeful for a chance with the man that he preferred to believe that his relationship was fake than dealing with the fact that Louis was unattainable.

“I reckon it must be confusing to work with him,” Niall continued, putting a supportive hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Especially in the midst of all the other chaos we’re going through, and bloody Alain and all, but you’re an amazing, tough person and you can deal with it doing an incredible job along the way.”

Harry felt a bit teary-eyed and so thankful for his friend that he hugged him tightly.

“Maybe I just need a proper night’s sleep.”

* * *

Louis didn’t help, though. One day he sent Harry a gif of two kittens play fighting, with the text _footage of my next match_ , making Harry almost choke on his strawberry smoothie. A couple of minutes later, he tweeted a screenshot of Marsh on his new show followed by three heart-eyes emoji and _#latenightdreams #hesdreamyalright_. Harry growled at the tackiness.

The next Friday, Louis invited him to follow one of his real trainings, and Harry sat for an hour in a small gym in Holloway, watching a sweaty and shirtless Louis punch sandbags. The gym was owned by Louis’ trainer, Ryan Whelan, who was the one shouting instructions while Joshua, Paolo and Liam followed Louis’ performance on laptop screens. Spice Girls were blasting on the loudspeakers, and Harry had to control his urge to get up on a chair and dance.

After the session was over, Louis took a quick shower, they ordered pizza and Paolo conjured two bottles of whiskey. They all sat on the floor, and Harry realised it was the first time he was seeing Liam without a suit. It suddenly hit him how young Louis’ manager was, probably the same age the boxer himself. It was also the first time that Liam was relaxed and carefree around him, especially after his third dose of whiskey.

Harry didn’t drink much, not keen to be drunk in front of Louis again after his champagne fiasco, and only took a small dose while they were waiting for the pizza. When they were eating, Ryan told them the story about his childhood in Galway, taking bets in the bare-knuckle fights that took place in the basement of his dad’s restaurant.

“After the fighting was over, we’d stay two hours mopping up the floor to get the blood out.”

“Oh my god,” Harry exclaimed in a muffled way, his mouth full of pizza.

“Then when I was fourteen me da put me up to fight. I had no training but I had learned plenty from seeing the lads fight. I didn’t lose until my eighteenth match against a bloody fella from Cork. And it wasn’t fair at all, he was almost double my weight,” Ryan continued, grabbing a second slice of pizza. “Da was a good man though, just a bit off in the head. But then the old man drank himself up to death and we sold the restaurant.”

“Don’t believe a word he says, Harold,” Louis interjected when he noticed how bewildered Harry seemed, and Ryan started cracking up after.

“We did have a restaurant,” he said.

“Oh, come on, that was such a good story,” Harry retorted, hoping no one noticed he was flushing a bit over being fooled.

“Saw it on some show, I think.”

“But the history of bare-knuckle fighting is fascinating,” Joshua said. He was the only was not drinking at all. “The way it’s deeply connected to Irish Traveller culture, especially, it almost makes up for an alternative constitution.”

“Nah,” Ryan growled. “It’s just a bunch of irresponsible knobheads trying to get themselves killed.”

They kept talking and trading stories about people Harry had never heard of, and some people that he had. Liam told him he was set to become a pro fighter when he broke nine bones in his left hand; Paolo generated quite a buzz in Italy before giving up on his MMA career and moving to England to become a personal trainer. Harry caught Louis smiling at him every so often for no reason, and smiled back, and thought it had been a long time since he had enjoyed himself so much.

Next thing he knew, it was almost one. Ryan closed the gym and headed home, some blocks away. Harry was set on calling a taxi, but Joshua insisted in giving him a ride so he squeezed between Liam and Louis in the backseat while Paolo was in the front. Liam sang Kylie Minogue all the way from Holloway to Notting Hill, making Harry was quite impressed by his vocal range even when he was drunk. By the second song, they were all singing along with him.

They headed Mayfair next, to Harry’s flat, and Joshua was already slowing the car down to park when an upper force prompted Harry to whisper in Louis’ ear, _Stay here with me_. Louis was glassy eyed and had ingested his share of liquor, but Harry was quite sure he had full control over his mental faculties.

It seemed like hours had passed until he heard a firm, “Yes, of course,” whispered back.

Neither Joshua nor Paolo said anything when Louis told them he would also stay at Harry’s, only wished them both a goodnight. They watched the car leave in the quiet empty street, and Harry felt himself freeze. Once again, he had no plan for what came after that. He needed to be in Cheshire in ten hours for aunt Shelly’s birthday and was now somehow standing outside his flat accompanied by world famous boxer Louis Tomlinson. But he refused to panic, and instead ran with it.

“I have a bus to catch at half eight,” he told Louis, still not moving a muscle. “It’s my aunt Shelley’s birthday down in Cheshire. She’s not actually my aunt, you know, not even my great-aunt even though she could be because she’s turning ninety-three.” Well, maybe he was failing in the not-panicking part. “She’s just a very old friend of my family’s, and that’s because my great-grandma Cassie knew her, and they became so close they were more like sisters, really, so that’s why we always gather to celebrate her birthday together.”

“That’s lovely, Harry, but can we go inside? I’m feeling a bit nervous here outside, mate.”

“Oh, sure! I’m just saying,” he opened the door, they entered the hall and headed to the lift, “we could do something until morning because I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep anyway, at least not without missing my train.”

He fixed his eyes on the numbered buttons of the lift, and up floor by floor they went. Louis remained silent for a long time, and Harry wasn’t sure if he hoped that Louis had interpreted _doing something_ as getting it on until the sunrise or as something a bit more innocent.

They went down the innocent road. Louis was amazed by the furry glory that was Olivia, and played with her while Harry fixed them a mix of peach juice and vodka to drink. They splashed on Harry’s sofa, resting their legs on a chair, and watched every 90’s boy band video they could find.

After four glasses of the horrible peach drink, Harry felt brave enough to show Louis his own channel. They watched his cover of Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer, then the one of Rolling Stones’ Paint it Black. Louis asked if he had any originals, and after a quick inner debate on whether he was shameless enough to show the man one of his compositions, he put on Night Changes. 

Louis was completely focused on the song while Harry was completely focused on Louis – on the way his chest moved softly, the way his tanned skin glittered against the screen light. He thought about how easy would be closing the distance between.

“This is very, _seriously_ good, Harry,” commented Louis, taking him out of his stupor. He hadn’t even realised he was moving in for a kiss, and pretended not to notice the way Louis discreetly moved away.

“Thanks, man. I try my best.”

“I think you shouldn’t brush off the idea of making it as a singer, and I mean it. I know some people in the industry if you want a nudge.”

“Thanks,” he repeated, feeling a wave of gratitude towards the boxer. What an excellent specimen he was. “I was obsessed with making it some years ago, but now I just sort of… want to do my thing. I don’t care about becoming famous – writing, petting Olivia and buying cute floral shirts is basically everything I want now.”

And he wanted Louis. He really, really wanted Louis.

“That’s great as well. I’m honoured that you showed me these videos.”

It was unfair how in control Louis seemed, even though he had drunk much more than Harry. Maybe it was one of the perks of being an athlete, having that much self-control and stamina. Harry, on the other hand, could barely keep his hands to himself. He wanted to brush Louis’ face and Louis’ lips and kiss him all over. He rested his head on the sofa for a second, breathing in and out, repeating _Marsh, employer, inappropriate_ like a mantra.

They kept quiet for long minutes, not looking at anything in particular, until Harry asked, “Why did you do it?”

There was no context, but Louis knew fully well what Harry was talking about. He bit down his lip, keeping quiet some more.

“You’re just under so much when you’re a pro,” he finally said, and for a moment Harry thought that was the whole explanation. An athlete wanting to win so much he blurred the lines between right and wrong. But he found himself silly for thinking that, because he knew vanity wasn’t one of Louis’ traits.

“I was with Julio, then, and I was sure I would spend the rest of my life with him. It was okay hiding for the first year or so, tipping on the _are they or aren’t they_. But then Julio wanted out. Can you believe it? He must be the bravest man I know, wanting to be out at the peak of his career, threatening to lose everything, just so we wouldn’t have to hide, lie, pose with random girls leaving clubs where we had spent the entire night together. I was terrified. I wanted to be out too, but every cell in my body was terrified of the repercussion, and Cooke said there was no way in hell he would let me ruin my career like that.

“I reached a crossroads. I had no doubt that the closet would be the end of me and Julio, but I didn’t have the guts to say _fuck it_. And Julio kept telling me, _I can’t do this without you, I can’t do this without you_ , and then we fought, and it was months like that. I told Cooke I was going to do it, and he said he would make sure I never got a match again in my life.

“So Julio broke it off. I thought about giving up my career, settling for being a TV presenter or whatever, and then we could get back and be out together. But I won a match, and then another, then got more sponsors and more money and the hole got too deep to crawl out.”

The boxer spoke fast and with no reservations, in the way that only people who have bottled up everything for too long do.

“Until I had a breakdown. I couldn’t deal with hiding myself anymore, and started arguing with Cooke again about coming out by myself. Ryan helped me so much back then, being my safe haven in that mess and keeping me from doing countless stupid things. We had meeting after meeting, drawing strategies. Zayn was up to it and had a full plan ready to be set in motion. Cooke kept saying no, and we always backed off in the last minute. _Too risky, you aren’t established enough_ , this was the sort of thing he said.

“And I knew he was right. I knew it was a risk, because there were dozens of other boxers just as talented, handsome, charming or whatever people thought I was, with no sponsors and no real chances who were ready to take my place at the moment I blew it. But I didn’t care anymore. So I made a stupid plan and went abroad.”

“You set those Ibiza pictures,” Harry concluded.

“I did. I thought that if shit hit the fan, Cooke would have no choice but get onboard. That’s what happened, sort of. There was the Attitude cover, and then I was out. Some suits pulled out their money, but the public’s reaction was overall positive. I was beaming, so relieved I couldn’t put it into words. But soon another type of pressure started - now I was expected to be this flawless gay role model.

“It was around then that Cooke started talking about the Lyndon match. ‘If you want to go on and tell the world you’re fag, at least prove you’re a good fag and get that damn title,’ he would say. ‘You think sponsors support what you did? Wait for the media to get off your arse and they’ll all drop you.’ I hated him. He was kind of right, though, because a month after the Attitude cover, I was having less and less income. I was terrified again, right after I thought I could have the best of both worlds.

“He became more and more insisting on the Lyndon thing. ‘You can take him, prove that you’re worthy.’ I knew I couldn’t, not yet, that I needed more training and more matches before I could go on title match. I would sit down with Ryan and Cooke and they started fighting so horribly I was afraid they’d punch each other. But Cooke won. He set the match, and hired a whole new team to market it. Zayn was furious and threatened to quit working for us.

“The day of the match arrived, and I knew I was going to lose. I knew I’d have my first loss that day and I needed to deal with it and it had been a huge mistake. I remember the way I couldn’t stop shaking and nothing sat on my stomach. That bloody lightning and all the interviews and Cooke saying again and again that I had no choice but winning, or else I’d just be another useless faggot.

“I was there, sitting in the dressing room, sure I’d pass out anytime, when Cooke said, ‘You have to take this. Look at you, you look like garbage. All this bloody money wasted on you, what a disappointment’ and shit after shit that I could barely process. I just stared at the syringe he was holding. _Take it, take it, take it_. So I took it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Harry didn’t realise he had dozed off until the moment his body was softly shaken.

“Harry, it’s past seven now,” a distant voice informed him, but he did not care. “Harry, you have your aunt Shelley’s birthday to go,” the voice insisted, shaking him a bit more strongly.

He jerked awake then, drying the drool on his chin, and almost screaming at how painful his neck felt. He had slept with his head resting in an awkward angle on the back of the sofa, and as a result not only did he have a stiff neck, but every muscle in his body seemed sore.

But the most difficult thing to process was that the person waking him up was Louis Tomlinson, who seemed fresh out a perfect night’s sleep.

“I took the liberty of taking a shower,” Louis informed him, pointing at his wet hair.

“That’s okay.”

“Do you have a headache or something?”

“A bit of a stiff neck, I guess.”

Louis fumbled in his Adidas bag and offered Harry a pill, which was swallowed it with a glass of water also offered by the boxer. “Great for muscle pain,” he explained. Then he put on a huge baseball cap and stretched a bit, making his pants’ waistline visible. _Stop it, Harry, for the love of God_ , he reprimanded himself. It was too early and everything was too foggy to think about that.

“I need to get going as well. Thank you for last night, I had a lot of fun.”

“Thank _you_ for inviting me over to your training.”

“I think we can officially consider ourselves friends, right?” Louis said with a smile and seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Which means I can… trust you with everything we discussed last night, can’t I?”

Harry tried not to be offended. After being screwed over more than once, it was understandable why Louis would be wary of someone spilling his secrets. He still felt a little bit hurt, though.

“Of course you can, Louis. I’d never tell something like that to anybody.”

“Good, great, thank you. It was… very nice to talk to someone about it. I had never told anyone before, not even Ryan or Liam or anybody. It was good to take it out of my chest.”

“Anytime, pal.”

“So I’ll be off, then. Let me know when you get to Cheshire, will you? I hope you can make it to your auntie’s birthday in one piece.”

“It’s going to be quite a challenge, I can assure you. Do you want me to call you a taxi?”

“No need to, that’s already taken care of,” he looked around for a moment, unsure on how to say goodbye to Harry. He went for an awkward pat in the arm just like other times. “Thanks again.”

After Louis left, Harry drowned in his sofa for a few minutes, blankly staring at the opposite wall and trying to fathom how he ended up with Louis in his flat. He remembered the isolated facts clearly (training - pizza - fake stories - sour peach drink - heartfelt confession about his homophobic manager which pressure him into taking steroids), but still couldn’t see how they connected to each other coherently.

What the facts didn’t cover were the shared glances between Louis and him, or the way their knees unnecessarily touched on the car ride after they dropped Liam off, and especially didn’t explain why Louis had accepted Harry’s invitation to stay over as if it was the most natural decision in the world.

The only conclusion he could reach was that Louis would eventually drive him crazy.

His ringing mobile eventually took him out of his stupor, and he groaned when he saw Gemma’s name flashing on the screen. It was a quarter to eight, and there was a seventy-two percent chance he wouldn’t make it to the bus station in time.

“I hope you’re already on your way to the station,” his sister said instead of _hello_.

“I am. Absolutely am.”

“You liar. Mum says they’re already setting up the decoration.”

“The sooner you stop nagging, the sooner I can go,” Harry retorted, fiddling through his clothes to try deciding on an outfit in record time.

“Oh, and didn’t you use to be the nice one. Go on, then, see later. Love you, bye.”

He had barely said _love you too_ when his sister hang up. He settled for a cotton t-shirt that wouldn’t crumple too much in the bag and put on some skinny jeans, grabbed a jacket and hastily packed a change of clothes. On his way out, he sent a text to Niall reminding his friend that he’d be home for the weekend and that it was Niall’s duty to feed and pet Olivia. Then he grabbed aunt Shelley’s birthday gift, kissed Olivia goodbye and stormed out of the building.

* * *

The nap he took on the bus made him arrive in Cheshire feeling more like a human being. Gemma picked him up, lent him her concealer and he quickly changed in his old house before heading to the party. His entire family was there, alongside five other different families from the neighbourhood.

Aunt Shelley loved her gift, kissed both their cheeks and asked Gemma when she would grant her some great-grandchildren. Gemma laughed politely, saying _who knows, auntie, who knows_. She made no romance-related comments to Harry.

“Speaking of the children I’ll never have, me and Josh are on a break,” Gemma whispered into Harry’s ear while they were trying to find out what beverage had the highest level of alcohol. Niall always guaranteed that there was no better way to nurse a hangover than just getting pissed again, and Harry was about to find it out empirically.

“Oh, why? I think we should settle on the Jameson.”

“Great, hand me those glasses, will you? He spent half his salary last month in action figures. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s his mo— Oh, hi, aunt Sarah,” he waved to Shelley’s younger, ninety-year-old sister before continuing. “That’s his money, right? If it makes him happy...”

“You have no idea how terrifying it is to get into a grown-ass man’s flat and find fifty Pokemon action figures staring at you.”

Harry snorted, taking a sip on the whiskey and having flashbacks of the previous night.

“But he didn’t propose anything… _weird_ with the things, did he?”

“How do you mean we— Ew, Harry, no he didn’t, why would you even go there.”

“Alain told me I wasn’t an adult because I wasn’t comfortable with him sleeping with half London,” he told his sister, letting the whiskey burn his throat.

“Alain is an idiot.”

“He’s kind of right, though? It shouldn’t bother me. And everybody seems to be doing it these days.”

“Everybody is doing it, seriously? That’s your reasoning to justify Alain’s shitness?” Gemma retorted, judgingly nodding her head. “If there’s someone who’s suited for monogamy, that’s definitely you.”

“I could try being non-monogamous. I can do it.”

“Of course you can, but do you _want_ it?”

They swallowed down one more dose each, and Harry went through a whole inner debate in the meantime.

“I don’t… I don’t think I want it, no. Does that make me stupid?”

“You’re lovely and people have different expectations for their relationships.”

“I’m sorry it’s not working with Josh.”

“I’m not that sorry. I mean, it’s kind of sad, but I’m mostly relived now.”

By three in the afternoon, Harry had talked to every person in the party and become the old ladies’ favourite as usual. He loved the old ladies – they always praised his hair, laughed at his puns, gave him fashion tips and called him _Harold_ because they were sure that was his real name.

Niall texted to let him know that Olivia was being fed and loved, and he texted Louis with a five-hour delay saying _sorry mte forgot to let you know i arieved gr8 party going on_ , to which he received five laughing emojis and a _looks like it_ reply.

By nine, all the guests were gone and Harry was crying on his sister’s lap, who mindlessly petted his hair, telling her about the mistake it was to sort of get back with Alain, how much he wanted to bang Louis (“Harry, _language_!”) and how much he loved her for always having his back.

It was a field day.

On Sunday, he made a detour to Manchester, getting a ride with Gemma after lunch, and spent the afternoon with Maya and her girlfriend. He arrived back in London when it was pitch dark, finding a heart-filled handwritten note from Niall saying that he and Olivia missed Harry, and refused to think about his regular life starting over in the next day.

Which started in a very, very unusual way because Harry entered the newsroom, sleep-deprived and in a horrible mood, to find Zayn Malik sitting by his desk. Malik looked impeccable in a crimson suit, quickly typing on his mobile, and barely seemed to register that Harry’s presence.

His first thought was the usual _holy fucking hell how can a man look this hot_ , followed by a sour-tasting panic.

“Is Louis okay?” he asked Malik.

“Styles, good morning,” Malik replied. Perrie, the only other person already at the office, rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Louis is fine. He asked me to tell you that he has scheduled lunch for Wednesday.”

Then he stopped talking. No explanations about why, then, he was sitting on Harry’s chair in the place where Harry happened to work.

So Perrie had to tell him that, “Mr. Malik here has a meeting with Callahan, and insisted on waiting by your desk instead of Callahan’s office so more people can see his fine looking self and he can maximize the dramatic effect.”

Malik smirked at his mobile.

“Why do you have a meeting with Callahan?” Harry asked.

“That’s classified.”

“Don’t say _classified_ like you’re a bloody MI6 agent,” Perrie interjected.

“Do you two know each other, by any chance?” Harry asked one more time. His brain couldn’t take all that amount of information so early in the morning.

“Briefly,” Malik said, again without further explanation. He exchanged a glance with Perrie, who shook her head and signaled _later_.

The next person to arrive was Niall, while Harry was preparing some coffee in the kitchen since his work station had been filched. He could hear his friend saying, “Wow, you’re a good-looking fella,” followed by “Wait, aren’t you Louis’ publicist?” which led Harry to get out of the kitchen to the surreal scenario of Niall and Malik making small talk.

“Harry, why is Zayn here?” Niall asked him instead of saying hello.

“It’s _classified_ ,” Perrie answered in a mocking tone.

Luckily, Callahan was the next person to cross the door, hastily holding a cup of coffee from Nero and with bags under his eyes bigger deeper than a black hole.

“Oh, Mr. Malik, I’m very sorry I’m late,” he said, also forgetting to greet his employees. “My cat refused to let go of my shirt and it bloody took me ten minutes to get his sharpy little teeth out of it. Now look, my collar has cat-teeth marks on it.” He shook Malik’s hand with his free one. “Well, do come inside, please. And you people, no more chitty-chat, get to work.”

Harry sat on his chair, turned on his laptop and tried not to dwell on figuring out when his life had become a poorly made version of The Office.

* * *

Almost a very unproductive hour later, Malik left the magazine without saying much. Callahan locked himself for another hour after that, and then he stuck his head out of the door and said, “Jesy, Horan, come here for a second, will ya?”

Harry was the first to text to their group chat, _what iS GOING ON?????_

_does anyone get chaotic good vibes from that bloke_ , Jade said.

_haven’t you heard anything about it, harry?_ Leigh-Anne asked, quickly adding, _you being the tomlinson-specialist and all_. Harry took a moment to feel proud about being coined a Tomlinson-specialist before unfortunately having to say, _no idea._

He couldn’t do much else other than half mindless write on his article about recent discoveries of jellyfish species, half stare at Callahan’s office door until it was opened again. Jesy and Niall sat back on their chairs without uttering a sound, but Niall was fast to quickly type, _we can’t rly comment abt it but it’s….. sth._

_omg niall why did you say it’s sth if you can’t say anything else_ , Jade was the first to complain.

_it’s an investigation sort of thing_ , Jesy added, not being helpful. Harry wanted to throw his phone into a wall. He looked at Niall like a starving dog, but his heartless friend just shrugged. Scrap The Office, now he was feeling in a show about bloody Area 51. _folks come on let’s get back to work i can see callahan creepily peeking through the blinds_ , Leigh-Anne informed them.

So Harry acted like the reasonable grown up he was, which in his mind involved cornering Niall in the restroom as soon as the opportunity arose.

“Niall.”

“Bloody hell, Harry, you scared the shit out of me,” a jumpy Niall said, zipping up his trousers.

Harry didn’t mind. He had a mission. “You need to tell me.”

“Are you okay, man? Did you smoke or something? You seem… glassy-eyed.”

“Niall.”

“You’re seriously scaring me,” his friend repeated, now washing his hands.

“Niall, I need to know.”

“Stop unnecessarily repeating my name.”

Harry just stared, then.

“Ok, this is somehow worse. I’m sorry, man, I love you, but Callahan asked us to keep it under wraps for now.”

“But it’s related to Malik’s visit, right? And if it’s related to Malik’s visit, it’s related to Louis. And if Louis is involved, I _need_ to know what it’s about.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Don’t try changing the subject,” an exasperated Harry retorted.

“I’m getting a bit worried about you, Harry,” Niall said in a soft voice, ignoring his friend’s plead.

“You shouldn’t be, I’m just… curious.”

“Do I need to do an intervention or something? This is second time in, like, a week where we have an awkward loo conversation revolving around Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry felt a rush of anger coming over him, and for a second he wanted to slap the other man. First of all, their restroom talks were a fairly common thing when the topic was too urgent to be postponed, and too long to be typed. Secondly, two thirds of his life had been revolving around Louis since the day that he was banned, so it shouldn’t be surprising that there were–

And then Harry realised that two thirds of his life _shouldn’t_ be revolving around Louis.

He felt a sudden urge to cry. Maybe he did need an intervention. How did he let this happen without barely noticing it? He was not only lusting after his famous employee who was in a committed relationship with another person, he was also kind of letting himself develop feelings for the man. He hated himself.

Niall must have realised he was about to break down, or maybe he was just the greatest person on Earth, because he enveloped Harry in his arms then, and petted his hair, saying that Harry was great, that he should rest more, that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself.

After being comforted for a few minutes, Harry washed his face, fixed his hair and went back to his desk. It was almost four, and he hadn’t done a single thing that was on his schedule. Breathing in and out until his mind calmed down, he opened up a tab for an incomplete article.

* * *

Harry invited his yoga instructor Nevenka to have breakfast with him the next morning, expecting to get some mindful advices from her, but had more reasons to believe that the universe hated him because the first thing she asked was, “Have you been watching Late Night Dreams? It’s _so good_.”

“It’s not really my kind of thing,” he answered as politely as possible. Before she confessed her eternal love for Finn Marsh or something, he quickly added, “Nevenka, can I talk to you about some personal stuff?”

“Of course, darling. Would you like to share some green tea?”

“Sounds wonderful. The thing is,” he went on before he got too scared to do it, “that I’m feeling like shit and totally unzen and I don’t know what to do.”

He proceeded to tell her about Alain and how guilty he felt for getting involved with the man again even though he knew it wouldn’t end well, just because Alain was available, and he was needy and horny and lazy. But then he had met another guy, Ted, whom he really liked but really shouldn’t because Ted was with someone else and it was an overall fucked up situation.

On the other hand, Ted made his heart flutter and his knees weaken and he felt as if he and Ted could talk for hours without ever running out of things to say. It got even harder to deal with it after Ted ended up platonically sleeping in his place, and now they had a business lunch the next day which would be the first time they would see each other since the sleepover.

And there was this huge, supermassive black hole sized part of him that just craved for a relationship so much that he didn’t even know if his feelings were genuine or if he was projecting false expectations onto Ted.

“Oh, dear,” was Nevenka’s conclusion over their bitter green tea. Harry wanted to smash the decorative lemon slice on his, but he patiently waited for the woman to formulate more. It took her almost three minutes to state, “That’s a tricky situation you’re in.”

“I know.”

“You did seem to be very tense these past weeks, barely keeping your balance. And you look a bit sleep deprived too.”

“I’ve been working a lot,” Harry tried to justify.

“It’s hard to face the storm,” she pondered, “It’s easier to let yourself drown.”

“I don’t think Ted is part of the drowning, though. When I’m around him, I feel it’s... much easier to breathe.”

“So maybe you should face it and tell him that?” Nevenka suggested over a peaceful smile. Harry was still a bit confused over the metaphors, but was feeling calmer anyhow. They paid for their teas and Nevenka invited him for an extra yoga session that evening, which he happily agreed to.

He had no plans of saying anything to Louis, but sharing his feelings (almost) frankly with his instructor made Harry feel better with himself. It was good to put into words the way that Louis made him feel - it made his feelings more palpable, less laughable than a silly boy’s crush. Tough as it was admitting that he let himself develop real feelings for Louis, it was better than brushing it off.

The mindful state of mind was interrupted by his buzzing mobile, just as Harry entered the magazine’s building.

His heart made a record succession between racing and sinking - the first when he saw Louis’ name on the screen, the second after reading the message, _hey mate, good morning. sth came up and i won’t be able to make it to tomorrow’s lunch._ Harry waited to see if there would be a second message, rescheduling the meeting, but Louis was quiet for a full minute. Harry entered the lift, pressed five and started to reply when _Louis typing…_ reappeared on the screen.

Then his heart was back to racing and he had to control himself not to dramatically hold himself against the lift walls, because Louis said, _my whole week is filled up but maybe we can grab dinner tonight?? if you’re not busy….._

Harry wanted to say he had never been more available in his life, but that would contradict the whole “I’m a mature man having mature feelings towards this other man” debate he had just gone through. _not really, i have a yoga session at seven, we can meet up at half eight? do you have a restaurant in mind?_ he typed as he exited the lift, almost tripping on the gap.

_is my place ok?? don’t feel like going out… i can order us something_

Harry stood against the wall outside the magazine and madly giggled.

_sure, what’s the address?_

Louis sent him a Camden Town address and Harry tried not to combust. He mindless greeted Leigh-Anne, who had just arrived, waiting for himself to calm down. If he was barely dealing with the fact of grabbing lunch with Louis the next day, having dinner at the boxer’s _place_ was almost too much to handle. His whole body felt five degrees hotter than a minute before, leaving him inappropriately horny at his workplace 8:26 in the morning.

Harry entered the office, greeted his colleagues and headed to the restroom, washing his face five times with cold water, and then reapplying the sunscreen he had taken off in the process. He could do it. He was an adult and could handle having platonic dinner with a man he desperately wanted to have sex and cuddle with. 

He thought the day would go by tortuously slow, with the expectation of meeting Louis in his bloody place later, but it was quite the opposite. As soon as he sat on his chair, Harry felt incredibly productive and typed away without breaking a sweat. _someone is in a good mood_ , Niall texted him in the middle of the morning. Harry smiled to his friend through their laptop screens and answered, _i kind of have a date tonight…_

_what???? that’s brilliant man, who’s he?_

Harry froze. He shouldn’t be lying to Niall, let alone drag the lie further than needed, but there was no coming back now unless he wanted to expose himself. _just a grindr bloke but he seems cool_ , he replied, asking the universe to forgive him for the little white lie. _btw, can you come around the flat to check on olivia? i have a yoga thing after work and then i’m heading straight to the restaurant._

_sure, enjoy your date w no worries [heart emoji] [eggplant emoji] [heart emoji]_

There was no reason why he deserved to have such an amazing friend, but Harry felt another strong rush of affection towards Niall, and squeezed his arms around him in the first opportunity.

The extra yoga session helped him calm down, a very necessary thing to ease his boiling feelings. He didn’t change out of the yoga outfit, just untied his hair and put on a sweatshirt. It was eight seven when he texted Louis, _i’m on my way, ok?_

_waiting for you!!_

He decided to buy a bottle of wine in a close by Sainsbury’s, trying not to dwell on his inner debate of what kind of wine Louis preferred, if he even liked wine at all, and wasn’t it a bit too forward, too gay to arrive at a man’s place carrying a bottle of wine? He ended up grabbing two bottles of Yellow Tail, checked out and called an uber.

He was soon standing outside a small plain building surrounded by other small plain buildings, a quiet street where nobody would imagine a high-profile athlete living. His hands were sweaty, his legs trembled and Harry felt ridiculous in his leggings. Why hadn’t he changed into something more fitting? Why did the bottles seem so heavy on his hand? His stomach twisted with the blurriness that life had become. But he forced his body forward, and pressed the apartment number into the intercom.

Louis’ unmistakable voice answered, “Yes?”

“Hi, it’s me,” he said, feeling progressively dumber. There must have been countless _me’s_ in Louis’ life.

“Oh, Harry, hello,” Louis retorted in a cheery voice. “Come on up.”

The door buzzed, Harry pushed it and there he was, standing in the hall of the building where Louis lived.

Despite being heralded a Louis-specialist, Harry had to admit he didn’t really know the man all that well. However, as soon as he stepped into the apartment, he could feel it was _very_ Louis. The place was a bit messy, but in a logical way, with many books spread on the coffee table, three boxes containing what seemed to be merchandising from different brands, two gloves on the sofa, and many fighting pictures hanging on the walls.

“Yeah, didn’t get around to cleaning up,” Louis said when he noticed that Harry was examining the living room with much attentiveness.

“I think it’s quite cozy.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen the mess in the bedroom yet,” Louis retorted.

“Can’t wait for it.”

Louis smirked at him, and Harry tried not to make too much out of it. There was nothing wrong with some harmless flirting; Harry used to be quite good at it, actually, before he became a ball of anxiety ninety-eight percent of the time.

“It’s just a place I stay when I’m in London, anyway,” the boxer explained. “Well, I hope you like Mexican food, because I ordered it before realising I hadn’t asked you. At least I remembered to order some vegetarian options.”

“That’s actually quite thoughtful,” Harry replied, and let himself be guided to the kitchen. He sat by the table, took off his sweatshirt, carefully folded it and grabbed his laptop.

“Don’t forget the golden rule of food first, business later,” Louis remarked when he noticed the laptop on the table. Harry shrugged, saying that old habits die hard. He then remembered a Bruce Willis joke with that phrase and giggled to himself. Louis stared at him for a moment, holding two plates and some cutlery. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just… never mind. Ummm, this smells divine,” Harry said when Louis opened the first box full of burritos.

They ate the food while talking about mundane things, and after it they discussed about an outline for Louis’ documentary. People had been hired, places had been set up, Louis’ family and old acquaintances had been notified and the production would officially start in a week. Louis seemed much more relaxed and happier now that they were talking about plans and strategies instead of himself, so much that Harry was a bit in awe. He reckoned that the boxer would make an excellent businessman one day. 

More than an hour and a full bottle of wine had gone by when Louis stretched his arms and suggested, “Let’s call it a day, mate?”

It was almost ten, Harry was tired and a bit sore from the yoga session, so he shouldn’t feel any reluctance in saying, “Yes, sure, I’ll just save the things here and go.” And yet, he felt a shit load of it.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Louis clarified and grabbed the second bottle of wine. “Especially when we still have one to go. I’m just suggesting we spread out on the sofa and maybe do a session of boy bands, part two.”

“Oh,” now that was a brilliantly terrible idea, considering that he had to wake up early the next morning and that their last boy band session ended up with him having an astronomical hangover, with Louis sharing hurtful personal stories. “Sure, I just have to get home at a reasonable hour.”

“I can drive you myself,” Louis pink-promised. Harry stared, pointing out both their glasses of wine. “Ok, I can call you a taxi myself.”

* * *

Harry told Louis about the time that Gemma threatened to kick a boy’s arse because he was picking on Harry, and later carried it out in a school prom because the boy called him “a curly-haired pussy”. Louis told Harry about the time one of his younger siblings accidently got locked up in a fridge and it took them three whole minutes to find her. Harry showed his favourite Fleetwood Mac’s album, recited a Sylvia Plath poem and danced to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie standing on the sofa, while Louis attentively watched him from the floor.

The second bottle of wine was emptied, and Louis announced that they would have to graduate to rum now. Harry knew they shouldn’t be graduating to any kind of alcoholic beverage, but he was feeling blissful for the first time in what seemed to be decades. So he accepted a generous dose in the wine glass, and drank the weird mixture unceremoniously.

Every so often, Louis discreetly checked his mobile and Harry had to control himself not to be taken over a pang of jealousy. Was he texting Marsh? He could be talking to anybody, really, because Louis was a very busy, well-known person that shouldn’t be wasting his time with Harry in the first place. But why wasn’t Marsh the one there, performing to silly songs on Louis’ sofa? Why couldn’t Louis throw his mobile away and pin Harry against a wall? Why did he insist on drinking when he felt so dizzy?

His deep inner debate was interrupted by Louis telling him that he used to be the star of the drama club in his school, back in his Doncaster days, and it wasn’t all that difficult to convince the man of doing an impromptu version of Grease’s You’re The One That I Want. Half of it, actually, because they fell on the floor laughing before they could finish. Even drunk and a bit breathless, Louis was a great Danny Zuko.

They stayed quiet, then, sitting on the floor. Harry was leaning against the sofa and Louis, on the armchair next to it. Harry didn’t have the energy to pretend he wasn’t staring at the other man’s face; some drops of sweat were forming on Louis’ forehead, he had dark circles and some bruises on his jaw. An uncared for stubble made him look older than his twenty-four years. Harry couldn’t fathom how much the man had been through in such a short span of life.

_Face the storm_ , his buzzing mind repeated insistently. _You need to face it, this is your chance, you can say it and let Louis do whatever he wants with the information_. A less controlled part of himself was just telling him to jump on Louis, closing the little distance between them. A third, bewildered part, noticed he was horny and getting hard. He had to quickly congratulate himself for being able to get an erection after all that drinking. Yoga and failed jogging had some advantages, he should ask Niall if– _Don’t change the subject_ , the first part took over again. _Face the bloody storm_.

And he did, blurting out:

“I fancy you,” before he rationalised enough to hold it back. “Kind of,” he added, hoping to sound less desperate.

Louis didn’t show any reaction, at least none that his shit-faced brain could process. He felt foolish, but no more than he felt relieved. His feelings were eating him up and taking over the best of him in a way that he hadn’t noticed until now.

It took hard, long minutes for Louis to say, “Harry, I don’t–”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything.”

But apparently he wasn’t the only one going through an inner battle, because Louis bit his lip, emptied his glass, poured another dose of rum and emptied it again before finally saying,

“I wanted to sleep with you… kind of. Well, intensely so. You know, when I asked my team to contact you, I was thinking… it was a hard time, I needed to choose somebody, and then I magically came across your cute-self. It made sense to me. I’m sorry if that offends you.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he felt offended, even though he probably should. He was still trying to process the fact that Louis wanted – or had wanted, at some point in the past – to sleep with him.

“We looked you up and saw how respectable your magazine and your boss were. We were fairly sure you weren’t a complete lunatic, then, and it became just a matter of convincing Liam. He thought we should go with someone relev– more well-known, but I insisted on you. If I had to share pieces of my life with a stranger, it comforted me a bit to know that it would be you. I felt a… connection, somehow.”

“You wanted to make a connection with my pants, you mean,” Harry interjected, and Louis laughed.

“That as well. But things got messier and messier since May.”

“And you started dating Finn Marsh.” It felt weird saying the actor’s name out loud; it was the first time they had ever acknowledged the enormous elephant in the room that was Louis’ relationship.

Louis bit his lip some more before saying, “Yeah, that too.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I have no idea, Harry.”

Harry was sure for a moment that Louis was going to kiss him right then, from the way he leaned his body forward, but he did nothing more than press his hand on Harry’s knee as an aid for getting up.

“All I know is that I need to go to the loo.”

He watched Louis having great difficulty in walking a straight line, until the man disappeared in the hall. Then Harry closed his eyes, resting his head against the sofa, and felt helplessly lonely.

He was also undeniably hard, feeling more sexually frustrated than it was possible to put into words, hating Louis for not making the first move when they met, hating Marsh for getting in their way, hating himself for existing. He even hated Niall for a bit, because if his friend had gone to that bloody press conference instead of breaking his leg, Harry wouldn’t be sitting in the boxer’s living room right now, trying to make sense of that awkward as hell situation.

But soon he loved Niall for it, because there was no other place he would rather be in that moment, except maybe for Louis’ bed giving the man a blowjob.

He let his fingers mindless play with the waistband of his boxers, wondering if people could spontaneously explode from an uncared for erection. Harry had a feeling he was about to empirically find that out.

When Louis got out of the bathroom, looking like he had just vomited his stomach’s entire content, Harry was standing up and ready to call it a night.

“Are you ok?” he unnecessarily asked the boxer.

“Brilliant. Do you want to stay? I have a spare bedroom.”

The universe was testing him.

“I really need to get home. I’m exhausted and I haven’t seen Olivia for, like, three hundred hours, and...” he was babbling. He hated babbling.

“Harry, we don’t need to get weird,” Louis said very slowly and with great struggle, leaning against the wall to keep his balance.  

“I’m not,” and it was true, wasn’t it? They would process and deal with it like the adults they were. They sure would, eventually. It was just too much for one night. “But I’m stinking and pissed and for the looks of it, I’m obviously not the only one.”

Louis made a dismissive hand movement as if Harry was saying a load of rubbish. He had to admire the boxer’s perseverance and lack of contact with reality if Louis seriously thought that his state could be described as anything other than smashed.

Harry called an uber himself, put the sweatshirt back on and grabbed his things.

“I’m sorry if I made things difficult,” Harry said, opening the door.

“You haven’t, Harry, we’re going to work things through. And I’m following you downstairs.”

“What? No, Louis, you don’t have to. It’s cold as shit and you should get into bed.”

“Shush, shush, let’s go.”

It was a quiet lift ride, and a quieter wait for the taxi on the chilly night. Louis leaned against the wall again, fighting hard to keep himself awake, and Harry stayed by his side because they would get warmer this way. Also, mostly, because he wanted to stay next to Louis. His mind barely registered when Louis started to absentmindedly play with a lock of his hair, twisting it around his finger.

The driver arrived soon, even though a century could have passed from all Harry’s foggy brain knew. Louis hold on to his arm for a moment before letting it go and saying, “See you.”

* * *

Malik’s second, a bit less dramatic visit happened a week after his first. Harry tried not to panic thinking about the likelihood of Louis sharing with the publicist what had happened – or _hadn’t_ , more accurately – between them the other night. But there was no logical reason for Louis to say anything, and Harry fought very hard to be as chill as he could when he said, “Hello there, Malik.”

“Styles.”

It was lunch time, and Harry was the only one in the newsroom. He reckoned the chances of eavesdropping the meeting with Callahan without getting caught, cursed himself for being so ridiculous, then planned a safe route to Callahan’s office. He was about to get up and crawl to the other side of the room when Leigh-Anne got back from her lunch.

“Are you okay?” she asked in suspiciously. 

“I’m… absolutely, yes, one hundred percent.”

She squinted, measuring him from head to toes while Harry uneasily moved on his chair.

“You wanted to spy on Callahan’s office, didn’t you?”

“What? How the hell could you know that?”

“Closed blinds is a sign of important meeting going on,” Leigh-Anne said, pointing to their boss’ office. “You being a weirdo means that you must be so curious about it you’re itching.”

Either she was a great investigative journalist, or his petty behaviour was easily deduced from kilometres away. Likely both.

“Malik’s there,” he whispered when she sat by her desk, unnecessarily pointing to the room. “Why does he keep visiting us? What does he _want_? Why is no one talking about it?”

“Okay, don’t tell this to anybody, but,” Leigh-Anne spun around on her chair, checking if they were really alone before continuing. Harry was already feeling his heart racing in anticipation, and moved closer to her. “I went to Finn’s office the day Malik came here last week, because I needed to check something with him, and I couldn’t help noticing a package on his desk.”

She was speaking so low he could barely hear her. He moved even closer.

“A package of what?”

“It just had the name Cooke on it. I didn’t really recognise it at the moment, but then I saw the connection between him and your new beau.”

“I wish he was my new beau,” Harry said before he could control himself, and Leigh-Anne rolled her eyes. “Do you think it has something to do with the lawsuit that Cooke brought against Louis?”

“Putting two and two together, I’m pretty sure it–”

“What are you two gossiping about?” Jesy’s loud whisper and her hands on their shoulder interrupted Leigh-Anne midsentence. She swallowed her words and faced her colleague with a smile.

“Malik was here again today,” Leigh-Anne explained. “I was just telling Harry about him and Perrie.”

“Wait, what about him and–” Harry felt a kick on his ankle before he could continue.

“Yeah, what a dickhead,” Jesy said, getting back to her place. “I think he’s got better, though, at least professionally. Perrie said they met because he used to send her a useless release about one of his clients every other day, before he got that fancy job of his. Can you imagine? I would kill the guy.”

“Then why is he coming here to share secrets with Callahan?” Harry asked without much hope of getting a straight answer.

“Nice try, Styles. Business is business, and I don’t think Perrie’s bothered by it.”

“Feel free to share anytime, though,” Harry shrugged, his head buzzing with the possibilities of what the package could contain. He loathed not knowing things, and had to refrain himself from drafting another crazy plan to invade his boss’ office and steal the package all afternoon, which mostly involved climbing on vent pipes.

The part which involved himself getting high on Niall and Lisa’s place wasn’t really planned, though. It was only a spontaneous invitation from his friend, who texted him mid-afternoon saying, _bought great weed and lisa’s cooking mac n cheese tonight, wanna come over?_

The whole apartment already smelled delicious when they arrived from work. Lisa greeted him with a tight hug, kissed Niall and went back to the kitchen, saying that food would be ready in a minute.

Harry liked his friends’ place more and more with each visit. It was refreshingly neat, even though it was kind of old and kind of small, like it actually belonged to two adults. Lisa’s vinyl collection was carefully displayed in a bookshelf in the living room, alongside countless biographies of athletes and history books about Ireland. Niall’s golf equipment was arranged on a corner, beside one of his guitars, and then there were some portraits on the wall.

It was so lovely that he felt himself tear up a bit.

They smoked first, and Harry blissfully enjoyed the dazed state he was in. How nice would it be to always live like that, empty-minded except for flashes of Olivia on psychedelic clothing, floating around space and dancing to Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!, with Niall petting his hair and not having to panic about stupid things he had said and done.

And he was panicking, deep down, even though he was being moderately successful at pulling off the image of a calm and controlled person. Ever since the dinner-turned-into-love-confession that they shared the week before, Harry couldn’t think about Louis without getting his palms sweaty and his whole body trembling. Nothing had changed, he repeated to himself over and over, before panicking some more.

On Louis’ end, everything seemed certainly the same. The day after their meeting, Louis texted in the morning saying it was great having dinner with him and that they would schedule something for the following week. Harry didn’t really want to answer, but he sent a generic smiley emoji and said he was looking forward to it. Part of him was glad he didn’t get fired, but then again the part that wanted to pack everything he had and move to Thailand so he would never have to face Louis seemed much bigger.

Whose idea was it to tell Louis how he felt? Nevenka, with her bloody mindful shit. He was okay with blaming her for the situation he had put himself into (but felt almost immediately guilty for it, and hugged her very tightly on their next session with no explanation).

His Saturday had started with paparazzi pictures of Louis and Finn Marsh grocery shopping together, and instead of slamming his mobile against a wall, he decided to be a reasonable person and took his free time to go out for a jog. Pettiness eventually got the best of him, though, so he ended the day a bit drunker than he should, getting blown by a strange man on his flat.

Considering the weird week that had passed, Harry felt even more grateful for Niall’s invitation to come over and get high together on Tuesday evening, with the added bonus of having his hair stroked. They silently watched Lisa pirouette around the small living room, both wondering how she could do such graceful movements without destroying everything.

“You have to see her performing the Swan Lake, I cry every bloody time,” Niall told him, unable to take his eyes off his girlfriend. Lisa used to dance for the Royal Ballet Company before getting into a huge fight with the directors for reasons unknown to Harry, right before she met Niall.

“I think I’d like to be a swan…” Harry considered, imagining how fabulous he would look in a vast white plumage.

“But hey,” Niall eventually cleared his throat and looked down at his friend, “did you see who came over today?”

In the span of nine seconds, the time that it took Harry’s brain to process what Niall had just said, he became three hundred percent more alert. His heart raced, and his hand froze before the blunt got to his lips.

“Are you talking about Malik?”

“Oh, he did come over alright.”

“Niall, that’s exactly what you said.”

“He did. Nice chap. Great style,” Niall continued babbling, taking the blunt from Harry’s finger and dragging.

“Niall…” he was confused and sleepy and getting hungry, barely focusing on his friend with a space-Olivia still filling up most of his brain. “Did you get us high so you wouldn’t feel guilty about telling what the whole Malik deal is about?”

Niall shrugged, “You might think that, I couldn’t possibly–”

“Please do comment. Make all the comments. I want to know. Tell me all about it,” he insisted, grabbing Niall’s wrist.

Niall did, eventually, after making Harry promise seventy-two times that he would not say a word to anybody, especially Callahan or Louis or Jesy, and asking forgiveness to the goddess of journalism for his slightly unethical behaviour, sharing information that should be confidential.

He talked about Malik approaching them the week before, saying that he was withholding some interesting pieces of information that could lead to an exposé on illegal and corrupted practices of long-time sports manager Samuel Cooke, possibly involving others. What they had so far was a lawsuit that Cooke got involved in the late eighties, where he was accused of stealing money from his rugby player client.

Malik proposed that the magazine got involved in the investigation, if they thought there was enough evidence to pursue it. Which led to Niall and Jesy spend a week digging dirt on Cooke, and discovering enough to convince Callahan it was worth to keep working on it.

Now they were officially investigating it, but Callahan had advised them not to share the new piece with anybody just yet.

“But I love you so much and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,” Niall concluded, with his stomach growling.

Harry ignored the pang of guilty over hiding and lying to his friend more than once over those last few weeks, and instead let his mind run on the implications of investigating Cooke. He would love to see that homophobic piece of trash going down, after what he had done to Louis, and the prospect of having some involvement on it was very exciting.

He didn’t know much about the man, but could gather that he was a big name on the sport’s world and had been around for decades. Cooke was credited to having discovered many brilliant athletes, and as being a pioneer in transforming athletes into part-time starts through lucrative publicity deals and strategic media appearances.

Cooke was just the kind of wealthy, unscrupulous man that was very hard to stop.

“You’re basically that guy from the Millennium books, messing with the rich and powerful.”

“I don’t know, man,” his friend retorted. “It’s a good lead, and Cooke does seem dirty as hell, but I’m afraid of being more like the girl from House of Cards.”

“You think Malik could be manipulating us?”

“First, he approached us with your Louis-thing,” Niall said, and Harry had to pretend he didn’t know the reason why that happened. “Now, he gives us a nod to start digging on Cooke who was Louis’ manager when all his shit went down. There are so many bigger fish than us out there, so why us?”

“Maybe because we care,” Harry tried, and then it was inadvertently crushed by Lisa, who sat on his belly and started caressing his whole face.

“Lads, let’s… fuck, my head is spinning like crazy. Let’s eat? I’m starving.”


	8. Chapter 8

There was always that scene in movies where the lead, involved in a dead-end investigation, plaster pictures and headlines on the wall and try fitting the pieces together. Harry wondered how ridiculous and creepy would it be to do something similar now, because pondering about the Tomlinson-situation while lying in bed on a quiet Tuesday evening wasn’t helping much.

His conclusion was that it would be very ridiculous and immeasurable creepy, so he had to deal with the fact of not fully comprehending why Cooke was being investigated by them, how it connected with Louis was apparently going for a settlement on the lawsuit, or why Malik had approached them with the evidence.

Maybe Harry should just follow Gemma’s advice and get a hobby. But then again, he already had, like, five. And was constantly sleep-deprived. But he still couldn’t get his mind out of the bloody boxer and all the mystery that seemed to surround him.

The production for the documentary started, which for Harry meant attending meetings once or twice a week at the posh Chelsea house. Thankfully, he was never alone with Louis in those occasions, saving them from the likely awkwardness that would ensure if they were.

The amount of people that came and went was staggering. Most of them were businesspeople, and then some old acquaintances recording interviews, boxing specialists commenting on Louis’ abilities, philanthropists talking about Louis’ involvement with charity. Louis was as polite and charming as ever, having all those people orbiting around him as if he were the sun itself – it didn’t matter who he was talking to, everybody seemed to be kind of in love with him.

The least affected person appeared to be Finn Marsh. Harry saw him once over the first week, and almost fainted at the thought of this random man appearing in a documentary about Louis’ life. He was relieved to notice that Marsh stayed as far away from the cameras as possible, so away that one could think he was trying to hide on the corners.

Partially embarrassed for behaving like a stalker, but mostly not giving a fuck, Harry followed Marsh around with his eyes. It was strange seeing the man interact with Louis in real life – up until that moment, Harry had only seen well-posed paparazzi shots of them. They stood very close to each other and talked in a low voice, not really touching, and Harry wasn’t sure if they really gave the impression of being uncomfortable or if it was only wishful thinking.

When Marsh finally left, Harry was possibly staring too hard because Liam’s voice startled him.

“Did you want to get an autograph, Harry?”

“ _Late Night Dreams_ is not even that good, is it?” Harry retorted before he could think it through; the idea of being mistaken by a Marsh fan deeply offended him.

“I’ve seen worse,” Liam shrugged.

It was impossible to exchange more than a few words with Louis, with him being constantly surrounded by people, and either shooting things or getting prepped to shoot things. Harry felt a weird pull in his stomach every time he saw the man, and he could picture Niall metaphorically slapping him if he knew what situation Harry had got himself into. _Get your bloody act together, mate_.

He wasn’t sure how he could do that, though. He thought about resigning, but losing the money from his contract would be terrible and he was sure the magazine would suffer as well. Maybe he could tell Louis that he had a crazy twin who came into town and pretended to be him and the crazy twin was the one who said—

“Gosh, sorry,” he had just hit something solid, while aimlessly walking around the Chelsea house with his mind fogged by his teenage angst.

“Oh, hi, Harry.”

It was Louis.

Of course he managed to run into Louis, of all people, in that damned fifty-room house. He smelled like fresh perfume and had a clean face, which potentially meant that minutes earlier he was completely naked while taking a shower. He spotted a big bruise on his exposed collarbones and Harry felt his knees weaken.

“It seems like we haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“I feel that I’m always here, actually,” Harry answered, knowing that he sounded rude.

Louis flinched, but his smile didn’t fade.

“Work’s been crazy, right? I’m certain that Liam is taking care of your payments for all these long hours. I’d never been involved in a documentary this long myself, I had no idea it took so many people to produce one. But we should be mostly set until December or so, and then we have to wait until my ban is over and… well, I shan’t give you spoilers,” he said in a horribly charming manner.

They were alone in the corridor, with everything so quiet around them that Harry started to think that a zombie apocalypse had broken and they were the last survivors. Alternatively, maybe the universe was just fucking with him as per usual.

“I can’t wait to see how it ends,” he retorted.

“Harry, listen, I…” he looked around very quickly before continuing, “I miss you. I feel like we were becoming close and I… liked that. I think you’re great.”

Louis sounded so honest that Harry hated himself for having half of his brain filled with dirty thoughts. Louis was a delight to be with, and they did seem to have a special connection, and Harry would love to be his friend if the circumstances were a little bit different, but… at that moment, he couldn’t. No amount of illumination could make him put his feelings for Louis behind him so quickly.

He was trying to figure out how to put that into words that weren’t hurtful when his mind seemed to shut down and, almost as a reflex, he leaned in. Louis didn’t stop him, and he could almost feel his lips against the boxer’s when a voice at the end of the hall made him freeze.

“… but I do insist on showing a little bit of him doing hands-on work, if not people could just think of him as a demagogue, you know?” that was Ms. Czajka talking as she approached them very quickly. “Louis, there you are! Hello, Harry, how are you doing? Yes, yes, I found him, give me a second,” that last part was said into the phone she was holding. Then she handed it to Louis, explaining that a certain Mr. Carlton was on the other end, waiting to speak to him.

“Oh, sure,” Louis said, accepting the mobile but still looking confused at what had just happened. Harry’s heart was racing as loud as eighty horses on a track. He proceeded to awkwardly wave Louis and Ms. Czajka goodbye and, with much willpower to make his legs work again, vanished from the house.

* * *

His whole Sunday afternoon was spent gathering professional contacts, counting down expenses and thinking about how many translations he would have to do to make up for the money he would lose from Louis’ contract. It would be a lot. He could also start busking on the tube, taking pictures of weddings and monetizing out of Olivia’s cuteness to reach the same amount of money he had been earning those past few months.

Or else, Harry could start practicing the frugality Nevenka always talked about, selling ninety-percent of his belongings and living happily with only a handful of things while wearing the same three pieces of clothing every day. He typed _minimalism_ into Google, and closed all the tabs in horror after fifteen seconds of looking at almost empty wardrobes.

Okay, maybe not the frugality thing.

He had reached his breaking point. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as mature and enlightened as he wished he was. Maybe he could find a way of transforming all his frustration and pining into money. That sure as hell would make him a rich man for the rest of his life.

During the day, Harry wrote thousands of different drafts of the e-mail he would send to Liam. _Dear Mr. Payne…_ _Dear Liam, I am horribly sorry to say that… it is with great regret and a heavy heart that I must inform you…_ He stopped on the seventh try, closed his email tab and put on his _The Notebook_ DVD.

He spent the rest of his day-off crying his eyes out and resting without another worry in the world.

That made him wake up feeling like a new man on the next day, even if this new man had a banging headache from crying so much. It was a rainy Monday, but Harry had never felt better. He woke up early, went for a jog and cleaned his place before going to work. He decided to email Liam after lunch, and then decided that the matter could wait until tomorrow, a decision quickly regretted when he noticed he had a Louis-related appointment on the following day.

His first option was faking his own death. His second was telling Niall everything in the hopes that his friend could show him the way and not kick his balls for all the twisted versions of reality Harry had been telling himself; the third option, and the one he decided upon during his lunch break, was locking himself in the loo and calling his sister.

“I knew it. I knew you fancied him.”

“Yeah, Gemma, I think we’re past this stage now.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No, because he’s dating that bloody… he’s dating someone else. Well, or maybe he just doesn’t want to sleep with me. I don’t… I’m not sure which one it is.”

“Wait, who is he dating?”

“Have you been living under a rock? Finn Marsh.”

His sister emitted a clearly surprised sound. Harry felt betrayed.

“Ohh, I’ve been watching him in _Late Night Dreams_. He’s brilliant.”

“I’m going to kill you. I’m sitting on the toilet in a fragile state of mind, but I’m still going to kill you.”

“Of course you’re twice as brilliant and handsome and witty,” she quickly added. “And I think this is for the best. Imagine dating a celebrity, it’d be a nightmare.”

“More like the opposite, actually. I should _stop_ thinking about dating a celebrity. I can’t even do my work properly anymore. They ask me things about the documentary, but all I can say are prolonged _aaah_ ’s.”

“Just like Tina.”

“Who the hell is Tina?”

“Bob’s Burgers, Harry, I told you to watch it.”

Maybe talking to his sister and with her inability to stick to the point wasn’t the most helpful thing. He hung up a minute later feeling twice as frustrated, with his mind having the worst ideas like _I could always text Alain and just marry him_. Suddenly faking his own death felt like the obvious solution.

Just after he came back from Costa with a sandwich, Callahan solved his immediate problems for him by giving a list with forty-two topics that had to be researched before the day ended. He did such a good work that his boss even complemented the neatness and readiness of his report; up to that point, he had no idea Callahan could utter such gentle words as “What a beautiful piece of work, Styles, now go home to rest.”

But Harry didn’t want to go home, not really, even if he missed Olivia and was perpetually tired – being far from any other human company felt too daunting after his Louis-breakdown. He was afraid of doing stupid things ranging from inviting strange men to his flat to even worse, to drunk-texting people who he didn’t want to talk to ever again just so he wouldn’t feel so lonely.

Only Leigh-Anne and Perrie were still in the newsroom by the time he was ready to leave, and he invited both of them to grab a pint, hoping that Olivia wouldn’t hate him too much. That November evening felt chillier than normal, which made it all that better to settle in the warm and welcoming Quinn’s with their usual order.

After the second pint, Harry couldn’t hold back asking Perrie what was her deal with Malik. He was promptly elbowed by Leigh-Anne. Perrie growled, but said anyway, “We went out for a couple of months like, ages ago.”

“Ooooh.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t work all that well. Zayn can be very…” Perrie made broad gestures while her friends looked at her puzzled. “I don’t know how to put it. And he wasn’t even that good, you know.”

“He does seem that be that good,” Harry retorted.

“There’s always room for improvement,” Leigh-Anne intervened and proceeded to tell what she had been teaching to her boyfriends, things that only three-pints-in-Leigh-Anne would share. Harry loved that version of her.

Their happy hour was followed by a pizza dinner, but after the girls refused to get a froyo with him (“It’s almost ten, Harry”), he had to admit there was no more place to run. It was time to go home and try not to remember that tomorrow would come, and with it a meeting with Louis in that damned Chelsea house.

Except that, when Harry got to his building after the quick tube journey, Louis was leaning against the wall waiting for him.

He had to blink seven times to confirm that the petite figure engulfed by the darkness of the night was indeed Louis. Not because he didn’t recognise his shape – at that point, Harry was quite sure he could even smell Louis from a considerable distance – but because it didn’t make sense. His mind couldn’t compute the fact that the boxer was standing right there, hands in his pockets, looking miserable in the chilly weather.

But he hadn’t had that much to drink, and was pretty sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks. Louis Bloody Tomlinson was indeed standing by his apartment building looking like a starving lost puppy.

“Fuck, I thought you had left the country or something,” Louis said as he got closer.

“What… what are you doing here?”

“Yeah, that would have been easier if I hadn’t stood here for three hours waiting for you. With a dead mobile in the last one, may I add.” Louis kept rambling and Harry couldn’t help but look at him as if he were crazy. Well, he was certainly _being_ crazy. “Shit, I wish I had kept some cigarettes to–”

“What are you doing here?” Harry repeated, more incisively this time, with his heart pounding too fast for him to think about anything else.

“It’s not real,” Louis said, and Harry hated him for making no sense. “My, erm, relationship. With Marsh, I mean. It’s not real.”

“What the hell do you mean, it’s not real?”

“That I’m not in any kind of committed relationship with Marsh – or anybody, for that matter,” Louis insisted, sounding impatient now. “Fuck, I should have waited until we were inside. Can’t we go inside? I’m fucking freezing here.”

Harry couldn’t, because he wasn’t sure he was able to move at all. It was certainly freezing, but that was barely noticeable when his whole body felt on the verge of combustion.

That was when Louis moved closer, close enough to kiss his lips in a quick and hesitant way.

“This is what I mean.”

For someone who was relatively skilled with words, Harry was at a loss of them. Words didn’t feel appropriate enough to describe the relief that spread throughout his whole body – it wasn’t like a breath of fresh air, or the sight of light after being in the dark for too long. Not even like thinking you were going to drown and making it out alive. It was all of that, and some more. For that magical instant when the pieces finally clicked together, everything seemed to be in its designated place. All stars were aligned and there was no suffering in the world.

Most of all, Harry felt lucky. He felt really, really lucky to find out he hadn’t met Louis at the wrong time, at the wrong universe. He didn’t feel angry at Louis for not telling him earlier, since the beginning, at least not for now. All he wanted to do was hold the man against his chest and never let him go.

But it was way too cold, and they needed to go inside.

The lift ride seemed to take five times longer than usual. Harry wanted to press Louis against the lift wall, but was too scared to do anything and destroy the magic of the moment. Instead, he got as close to the other man as it was physically possible, paying attention to Louis’ shaky breath.

“I’m sorry I just showed up.”

“It’s okay.”

“I was afraid you’d ignore me if I tried to call or text or something.”

“I’m glad that you did.”

“It’s just that after the other day I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”

“Louis,” Harry interrupted, and in a bold move took the other man’s hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m happy you’re here. I’m really fucking happy. Actually, I haven’t felt this happy in probably five hundred years.”

Louis squeezed his hand as the lift stopped.

Time became an incomprehensible concept. Harry felt like watching his own life through a movie screen in lowered speed. Nothing seemed real while being all too much, as if his senses had been amplified. Olivia’s fur was softer than when he had last touched it; the heater made his flat feel like summer; Louis’ skin was ten times warmer than a second ago.

Louis kissed him again, properly this time. Harry hold the man by the waist and let himself be led to the nearest wall, which was a blessing because his legs were shaking so much he could barely hold himself up. Louis’ arse fit in his palm perfectly, the same way Louis’ mouth reached his neck with no effort. They were like matching puzzle pieces made in heaven.

He could feel Louis’ erection against his leg, and he knew he wasn’t much better. He was moaning so loudly that Olivia was a bit startled, staring at him with judgment on her little face, which made him panic for a moment with the thought that his neighbors would be able to hear them as well. But then Louis put one of his still coldish hands inside Harry’s shirt, slightly pinching his nipple, and he couldn’t care less about being heard.

“You like that?” Louis whispered in his ear, and he nodded. Louis pinched his nipple again, harder, then began to open up Harry’s shirt. With some difficulty for being tipsy and just overall overwhelmed, Harry guided them into his couch and laid Louis on top of him. By then, his shirt was lost somewhere in his living room, and Louis was eagerly kissing every piece of Harry’s exposed skin.

He felt like the most blessed man in England.

Louis sucked at one of his nipples while caressing Harry’s leg. For a moment he forgot to react and just laid there, doing nothing more than breathing heavily and resting his hands of the curve of Louis’ back, taking in the pleasure of that being real, not only a frustrating dream which made him wake up angry. Louis was real. He was there.

“I feel like I’m doing all the work here, Harry,” the man mumbled against his skin, and that jerked Harry into action.

“Now do you?” he whispered back, fitting his hands inside Louis’ trousers.

“Yeah, it would be really helpful if—” Harry squeezed his arse. Louis emitted a noise that could be considered a squeak. Harry felt proud that they were understanding each other so well. “You’re a quick learner.”

“I respond greatly to feedback.”

“You see, that’s why we hired you,” Louis said tracing a line from Harry’s chest to crotch with his tongue, and then carefully unzipping Harry’s fly.

“Oh, and I thought it was because you wanted to suck me off so badly,” Harry retorted, having difficulty in keeping his voice steady with the knowledge that Louis’ face was that close to his dick.

“Well, look where we are now, having the best of both words.”

Harry got up on his shoulders so Louis could lower his pants to the knees, and then Louis touched him with his small, decided hand, and Harry wasn’t able to think of anything any longer. He felt like a teenager being touched by someone else for the first time, afraid of coming too soon just because Louis was the one touching him, wondering if it would be too much if he asked Louis to take him in the mouth–

Louis took him in the mouth, reinforcing his status as a national treasure.

Harry combed Louis’ hair through his long fingers, and his head jerked back in the couch, with his own hair being all over the place. Louis sucked him, kissed his crotch, pinched his nipples and fit in Harry’s inner thighs like he belonged there. It would make a beautiful Renaissance picture.

Harry had never seen Louis so free. Not only because of the whole having-oral-sex-while-half-naked thing, but because for the first time since they had met, Louis didn’t seem contrived, nervous or worried. Since the moment Harry saw him standing against the building wall that night, cold and vulnerable, Louis was unapologetically being Louis. A new wave of affection hit him and between all the nice and cozy feelings, he felt he was about to come.

He touched Louis’ face and mumbled, “Erm, I think I’m–”

Louis lifted his head gracefully, and watched Harry close his eyes and come all over his stomach after a few strokes. Then he got out of the sofa, found his way to the toilet, and very efficiently brought a wet towel for Harry to clean up. By then, if he weren’t so bloody tired, Harry would have composed a sonnet expressing his undying love for Louis.

“You’re an angel,” was everything he had the strength to say.

“Hmm, I’m actually thinking about the pancakes in the morning,” Louis retorted, lying on top of him again.

“Yeah, what pancakes?”

“The ones you’re making us, of course.”

Harry closed his eyes and smirked, picturing Louis in his kitchen waiting for breakfast to be ready. Soon, he wouldn’t have to picture it anymore. It would happen, for real, the very next morning. “Well, I swear tomorrow I’ll make it up to you with pancakes and whatever else you fancy.” He kissed the top of Louis’ head and very reluctantly added, feeling too cozy and too sleepy to move, “We should go to bed.”

* * *

The alarm went off at half six, forcing Harry to throw his mobile across the room. He immediately regretted it and disentangled himself from Louis’ arms as carefully as possible to grab it back. His head was pounding as much as it would if he had drunk eight shots of tequila, but it was only the result of the scarce hours of sleep he managed to get. Louis didn’t seem to wake up, instead spreading his glorious half naked body through Harry’s bed.

He pinched himself just to make sure it wasn’t all an elaborate fever dream.

But it was real. Louis had really come to his place last night, had really blown him in the sofa and was now really lying in his bed with nothing but underwear on. Harry could easily go back to bed, take off Louis’ boxers and kiss all over his arse, and that was what he planned to do as soon as he stopped feeling like he had been run over by a lorry.

Or after making pancakes. That was a good moment to make them.

After stumbling to the toilet to pee and brush his teeth, he was followed by a very awaken Olivia to the kitchen. The cat sat by his feet while he mixed the ingredients, and then watched him from the top of the table while he prepared them. In his half-asleep state, he managed to prepare something that could hardly be called pancakes.

“You’re a man of your word,” a yawning Louis said from the doorframe.

“And that’s only the first half of my promise,” Harry retorted.

Louis sleepily smiled at him, kissing him good morning and then sitting by the table. “I would offer to help but, you know, I don’t want to.”

“That’s very reasonable.”

Louis yawned some more. “But I’d love some coffee. Is there a coffee delivery around here?”

Harry looked away from the pancakes for a moment to face Louis. “Why would a coffee delivery even _exist_?”

“I always order them at home,” Louis explained, shrugging.

“You celebrities are weird. I have some instant coffee there,” Harry pointed to a cupboard door above his head, “and we can get some proper coffee later if you want.”

“Great. Instant coffee. Just what I need right now.”

“I’m eating the pancakes all by myself.”

“I don’t like people threatening me, Styles,” Louis retorted, getting up and on his tiptoes to reach the cupboard door. He got the instant coffee and turned the kettle on. Then he hugged Harry from behind, waiting for the water to heat and getting in the way of the pancake-making process. Harry didn’t mind.

They ate mostly in silence, playing with each other’s feet below the table. Louis put three teaspoons of instant coffee on Harry’s mug, and that was enough for him to feel 200% more awake. Under the effect of caffeine, Harry started to think that maybe they should talk – about the months of pining, about the miscommunications, about the future –, but before he could say anything, Louis got up, stretched and said, “Man, I could really use a shower.”

So instead of talking, he sucked Louis in his shower stall. It was a fair exchange.

“I’m having this wild idea…” Louis started when they got back to the bedroom. Harry opened his wardrobe and gave space for Louis to go through his clothes as well.

“Go on.”

“You could call in sick at work, and we could spend the entire morning together in this lovely apartment.” He grabbed a shirt, put it in front of his body and examined himself in the mirror.

“That’s an amazing idea, and I’d love to show you just _how_ lovely my apartment can be, but I prefer not having my scalp taken out. You’ll look great on it,” he added, pointing to the shirt.

Louis took off the towel that was around his waist, and Harry not so discreetly observed the boxer’s naked body slowly getting dressed in clothes of his own. Everything was a bit too big for Louis, but he didn’t seem to mind. Harry didn’t think that watching another man put on his clothes could be so hot.

“Such a responsible man, you are,” Louis retorted, checking himself over in the middle. “Does my arse look flat in these jeans?”

“You can stay here all you want,” Harry said, coming out of his daze and starting to pick his own outfit for the day. “And I think it’s physically impossible for your arse to look flat.”

“I better be going too. Don’t forget we have a meeting in the afternoon.”

Would it be too creepy to say that he would never be able to forget anything related to Louis? Probably.

“I’m on it.”

They had an extra five-minute make out session before going out of Harry’s flat. Most of Louis’ face was covered in an old snapback found deep down in the wardrobe, making them unafraid of holding hands in the lift or kissing outside of the building. Harry waited for Louis’ taxi to arrive before heading to the tube, and they kissed one last time with the soothing thought of seeing each other again in a few hours.

He got to the newsroom at almost ten, making him unusually late and the last person to arrive. The bags under his eyes were on full display because he had been too lazy and too busy with Louis to put on any make up. Everybody stared at him for a moment.

“Need to stop drinking mid-week,” he shrugged with a charming smile, dropping on his chair.

“Tell me about it, mate,” agreed Niall, stretching to pat him on the shoulder.

It would take a bit more than good will to call that day productive. Every time Harry started to type something, he got distracted in the middle of the sentence because his mind was giving him flashbacks of the night before. Louis’ moans were like a friendly hallucination. His skin seemed on fire, and even the most ordinary touches from his co-workers making him breathe a little faster. He had already gone to the toilet four times to wash his face, trying to calm down, and it was barely noon. His body’s reaction would be embarrassing enough even if he wasn’t a full grown man, but now it made him want to bang his head against a wall.

Bang. That’s a word he shouldn’t be thinking about.

On his fifth trip to the loo, he decided he had no fucks left to give and texted Louis, _your smell is all over me x_. _soon it won’t be just my smell all over you_ , the boxer replied, adding the dirtiest emojis available to the message. Harry smiled stupidly to his phone.

He had just got back to his desk when his mobile buzzed again, this time with a message from Niall.

_don't take it the wrong way mate, but are u ok???_

The in-person Niall was staring at him, waiting for Harry to type his response. He did his best to look puzzled while saying, _brilliant, why do u ask?_

_you’re breathing too fast like uff uff uffff and u can’t sit still_

_what_

_u also look red_

_i don’t my skin looks perfectly okay_

_like that time i caught you sucking the horrible frenchman_

_fuck don’t remind me of that_ , and he quickly added before Niall could say anything else, _we should get back to work, i can feel callahan’s evil stare through the blinds_. But Niall insisted that, _we’re having lunch together, i can smell it when you’re hiding sth_.

At one, his friend stood up and creepily stared down at Harry until he closed the laptop, grabbed his purse and left the newsroom. They silently walked the few meters that separated them from the closest Indian restaurant, and sat by the only available table. After they ordered lunch, Niall pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You had sex.”

“How could you know that?”

“You had very, very good sex,” his friend continued, trying to decipher what had happened just by observing him. “It’s that glow on you, like pregnant people have. But with who did you–”

Then Niall stopped mid-sentence, and Harry hold his breath as the Irishman dramatically covered his mouth his both hands, as if he were refraining a squeak.

“Oh my god, you did it, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“It was Louis. You fucking slept with Louis.”

Harry couldn’t hold back a smirk. He liked it – he really liked to know that having sex with Louis made him so happy that he was _glowing_.

“Your deductive skills are very good,” he retorted.

“How about his bloody boyfriend, man? Are you a homewrecker now? I didn’t raise you this way.”

“This is the greatest part, Niall,” Harry reassured him as their order arrived. “His relationship with Marsh? Fake. A lie. A vicious fabrication. I was right all along.”

“Wow, this is… I’m happy for you. I really am. This is good news. Are you happy? Of course you’re happy. Look at you, I could pinch your cheeks.”

“I was almost throwing in the towel, you know? I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I was pining so hard I thought I would explode and I couldn’t keep working with him. And just when I was almost losing my sanity, the bloody bastard decides it’s a good time to share the truth.”

“That is so romantic,” Niall said very dreamily, maybe losing the part in which Harry said he was almost losing his mind. “You and Louis Tomlinson, holy fuck. Who could have thought that you’d end up banging a celebrity.”

“I mean, I’m charming and decent-looking.”

“And Louis, nonetheless. You really scored here, mate.”

“Should I feel insulted?”

“What’s going to happen now?” his friend asked, and added in an excited tone, “Do you think he’s going to fake break up with his boyfriend because of you?”

Too many things had happened in the last fifteen hours for Harry to think about it. He had no idea where Finn Marsh fitted in the new him-and-Louis-getting-together scenario. He didn’t have any idea why Marsh _was_ in Louis’ life, first of all, let alone how the actor would get out of it.

His hand froze mid-air, carrying a spoon full of curry, while his mind showed him a succession of images. Headlines of a Larsh breakup. An article on Juicy News entitled “HOMEWRECKER: Random loser steals Louis Tomlinson from nation’s beloved actor Finn Marsh”. His private pictures being exposed on the internet while fashion blogs analysed every inch of his outfit choices.

What was going to happen now? Harry didn’t know, and all possibilities seemed terrifying. He liked Louis. The feeling was potentially mutual. But Louis was also a well-known sports celebrity with a considerably complicated life who was on friendly terms with David Beckham. Harry was only a guy who took too many pictures of his cat. Why was Louis even _interested_ in him, in the first place? How could he know that Louis wouldn’t fuck him a few times and get over it? But how would he deal with everything if it turned out Louis _didn’t_ want to get over it?

A Pandora’s box had been opened, leaving out all of Harry’s insecurities at once. He didn’t know, and he felt panicky.

“Uh, Harry? You spilled curry on your shirt.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me longer to post this one! I've been busy this past week and still needed to revise some things on it. But here we go. :D

It was very difficult not to eavesdrop when the words “Cooke” and “lawsuit” were put in the same sentence. Harry had arrived to the Chelsea house and was looking for a more familiar face than Tim, the camera guy, when he heard Malik and Liam discussing about it behind closed doors.

“You think he could be involved?” Malik asked.

“There’s no doubt for me. Cooke must know there’s very little chance now of him getting anything out of the lawsuit. Not when we… you know,” Liam answered, sounding a bit distressed.

“He’s trying to pressure us for a huge bloody settlement. That was his goal all along,” that was a third voice, which Harry didn’t recognise, belonging to a woman.

“My contact says they need more time to get more info,” Malik explained, and Harry even held his breath not to make any sound that would give his presence away – that contact was very possibly Callahan and the digging being done at the magazine. “Should we tell Louis about this?”

“No,” Liam and the lady said at the same time.

Harry was so curious he wanted to scream.

“Are you lost, man?” a very loud Tim asked him, coming down the hallway and totally blowing his cover. Two seconds later, the door to the room where the three people were discussing very interesting, secretive things was busted open by an unamused Malik.

“Ah, Styles, there you are. Maria was looking for you just now, I think she’s in the study,” he told him very sharply and soon vanished from sight, turning left at the end of the hallway.

Then Liam left the room as well, shaking Harry’s and Tim’s hands as he passed by. The unknown lady, who remained unknown because she didn’t get the time to introduce herself, was the last one to leave. She followed Liam down the hallway, carrying a small and distinctive envelope in one hand and skillfully typing on her phone with the other.

More than ever, Harry wanted to be a teeny tiny fly to follow that mysterious lady around until he figured out who she was and what she had been so seriously discussing with Louis’ manager and publicist.

“What a rude woman,” Tim said, following the lady with his eyes. “She’s got great bottoms though.”

“Tim, _don’t_.”

The study was the same place where Louis had taken a picture of Marsh reading a book and posted it on his instagram, getting thousands of likes in the process. (Not that Harry had obsessively followed that or other instagram posts involving Louis’ blissfully fake boyfriend to know what people thought of them.) It was also where the people involved in the screenplay usually met, constantly reviewing and modifying the storyline and deciding on interview questions for the documentary.

A place where Harry was quite often lately, because he was there to do a job, not obsess over something he shouldn’t get involved with.  

During those last months, Harry had collected a vast amount of information about Louis’ personal and professional life. He had also interviewed some childhood friends through e-mail, met frequently with one of Louis’ sisters who was now making a name for herself and participated in weekly storyline meetings.

It was an interesting process to be part of, especially because it was quite different from the work he did at the Overview, where he was more focused on researching and writing than interacting with people.

The house was also the place where most recorded interviews took place, and there was a fake Louis’ bedroom in the second floor in which many shots were taken in order to make the boxer seem more _real_ and _heartfelt_ (that was Brown’s, the director, description about it.) Louis was two hundred percent more comfortable in front of the camera now, and more honest too, but his favourite part was clearly working behind the scenes. An interview with James Corden, who would feature in the documentary, was scheduled to take place in February.

The abstract project Harry had embarked on in May was slowly becoming a very solid thing, as solid as Louis’ body pressed against his in the toilet.

Harry was halfway through the study when he met Louis, who looked around, saw nobody else, and pulled into the loo, which had plenty of room for a make out session. It was probably bigger than Harry’s entire flat.

“I’ve been thinking about you the whole bloody day,” Louis panted in his ear when they eventually broke apart.

“Yeah? What’ve you been thinking of?” Harry replied, having easy access to Louis’ pants in his loose boxing trunks. He was a bit sweaty, just out of training with Ryan, but Harry didn’t mind – it actually turned him on a bit.

“Your tongue all over my arse while I’m–”

There was a knock on the door. It startled Harry so much that his erection almost instantly disappeared, and he hastily tried to fix his messy self. Louis looked at him, and then at the door, without any reaction. There was a second knock.

“Louis, are you there?” Ryan asked on the other side.

“Yeah?”

“I was just wondering if it’s okay if I call it a day. I have to take my old man to the doctor.”

Louis gave Harry a thumb up. They were clear.

“Sure, mate, no problem. I’ll text you if anything comes up.”

“Thanks, man,” Ryan said. Harry’s hair was all over the place and his mouth a bit swollen. Anybody with two working brain cells would know what he had been doing, damn it, but he was apparently safe this time from people knowing that he was making out with Louis instead of working.

“Oh,” continued Ryan, emitting a dramatic whisper through the door, “and if I were you, I would refrain from sneaking into toilets with Harry. It’s actually not sneaky at all.”

Scratch the people-not-knowing thing, then.

“See you later,” the trainer concluded, and they heard him stepping away.

Louis laughed at Harry’s horrified expression, bottomed up his shirt and kissed him in the forehead. “We can continue on later,” he promised while leaving the loo.

* * *

Harry’s legs were still shaking when he finally got to the study after the quick detour. Ms. Czajka was having a heated argument with Brown about the legal and moral aspect of putting in the movie an interview with another boxer banned for doping. He had the distinct impression that Czajka didn’t quite like the director, because their constant arguments didn’t seem to happen only because of creative disputes.

Not to interfere, he silently slid to a corner and sat by Jenna, the very nice assistant director who seemed to know a bit about every fighting style in the world.

“Hi, you look like shit,” Jenna told him.

“I’m well aware of it, I’m two hundred hours of sleep overdue. Do you think they’re going to kill each other eventually?”

“Oh, no. Czajka is too tough for it,” then she pondered. “Well, maybe she is going to kill _him_ , but that would be quite counterproductive since we’re working on such a tight schedule.”  

“Did you know that cats look at us and think we’re just oversized cats?” Harry said after a moment of silence, taking the opportunity to make small talk while they waited.

“What.”

“I read about it on an article somewhere. It kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Cats don’t really have references to interpret–”

“Harry, stop talking rubbish and let me hear them,” Jenna interrupted him.

He was much more interesting in continuing on his cat rant, but did as his colleague asked. He turned on his laptop, with the intention of using the time to transcribe an interview that should have been transcribed three days before, but he was typing _cooke tomlinson lawsuit_ into Google before he could control himself.

There were probably no new public developments, since his Louis-alert hadn’t buzzed with anything worthy (an alert he kept for professional reasons, of course), but maybe he had missed interesting speculation about the lawsuit or even something else related to Cooke. Something that could shed some light into the conversation he had eavesdropped earlier.

The first page of results bought articles from the biggest gossip outlets, with The Morning Light posting a copy of what was claimed to be Cooke’s initial petition and Juicy News saying that sources had guaranteed that Louis was being sued because of his constant drug abuse, which had been covered by his manager more than once. To drag his name even further, the website used a picture of the UNICEF campaign Louis had been involved the year before. Harry was fuming, but kept going further on the results until something caught his attention on the seventh page. It was a comment on an obscure blog he had never heard of, which said, _forget about this mess of lawsuit. what about tommo’s nudes floating around? that’s what his team should be focused on_.

Harry was probably susceptible to infecting his laptop with nine hundred different viruses by opening the link, but his curiosity and slight panic were too great to control. People said random shit all the time on the internet, but some said _very specific_ random shit that could hold some truth to it. The comment had been made by _mediahatesqueer_ the day before, at ten twenty-seven in the evening, on a blog post discussing about Cooke’s connection with different out or speculated-to-not-be-straight sportspeople.

The commenter said they worked for a low-level gossip outlet who had received a grainy picture of Louis and another man having sex, with a promise that there was more to come if they decided to publish the image. Harry felt sick at the thought of that picture actually existing, and even sicker imagining that anybody would be so vile as to share that kind of content with the world.  

The reasonable part of him knew it was bullocks posted by somebody with way too much time in their hands, but another part was very suspicious of how well that buried random comment went with the conversation he had just heard.

If he managed to find that comment, maybe Niall and Jesy, the ones who were actually investigating Cooke’s unethical slash criminal behaviour, knew something about a potential leak of Louis’ private pictures. He struggled to get his mobile out of his tight pocket and texted them, _hey folks sorry to be so out of the blue but have you heard anything about louis’ nudes going around?_

He stared at the screen, waiting for an instant answer of “Obviously not, silly, no one would ever want to harm actual cinnamon roll Louis Tomlinson.”

The instant answer didn’t come. Instead, he almost dropped his mobile to certain death on the floor when someone quite strongly tapped on his shoulder. He turned his head to see a somewhat displeased Czajka looking at him. He shut his laptop close too late, with the awareness that _mediahatesqueer_ ’s comment had been perfectly readable on the screen with the 175% zoom he had given the page, a result of people having an incomprehensible love for setting up their websites in small fonts with illegible colours.

“Hi, Harry,” she eventually greeted him in a weird tone, maybe just because she was still angry with Brown. “Let’s start our meeting? I’m sure you have many interesting things to share.”

They sat around the big rounded table that had been added to the room a few weeks ago, a total of eight people discussing how Louis’ life could sound as interesting as fictional stories without them having to bend the truth too much. It was difficult to put his biased perspective aside sometimes, because to Harry pretty much everything related to Louis’ life sounded enticing.

After eleven minutes of discussion (Czajka was a very practical person when she wasn’t getting into fights) they were dismissed, giving Harry some more time to work on the transcript he should have started instead of playing Sherlock Holmes. It could be his imagination playing tricks on him, but he was almost certain that Czajka had given him a cold piercing look while she put loads of files and her laptop back on an expensive-looking case before leaving the room.

The prospect of pissing off an HBO executive for unknown reasons made Harry hate himself a little bit. He furiously typed into the keyboard, not stopping until the transcript was done, and then left the house without seeing Louis, Malik, Liam or mysterious lady again.  

* * *

After that horribly busy week, half spent trying to verify the veracity of _mediahatesqueer_ ’s comment by himself, since Jesy and Niall said they hadn’t heard anything about it, and half spent trying to make sense out of American politics, Harry was more than happy to spend the entire Saturday splashed out in bed doing nothing much besides binge watching Netflix shows, petting Olivia and eating bite-sized Twix.

The only activity that required any level of energy was having sex with Louis, who was also spending an unusual lazy Saturday and was glued by the hip with Harry in bed. They didn’t talk much, besides whispering dirty things on each other’s ears when they were ready to have a go at it again, or commenting how brilliant an episode of _Chewing Gum_ had been.

Harry tried to convince himself that it was normal – that they had talked enough the months before and were now focused on making up for the physical part of their involvement, but the sensible part of him knew that their lack of conversation also had to do with the giant Finn Marsh elephant in the room. They were both somewhat consciously avoiding the topic, as none of them seemed to want to deal with it.

The last thing Harry wanted was to sound like a crazy jealous man, especially when he knew the relationship wasn’t even real. Besides, he and Louis were nothing more than two lads enjoying each other’s body thoroughly; if they were ever going to move beyond that point, it wasn’t something they would discuss in that first week.

But no amount of reasoning could contain the bitter taste that invaded Harry’s mouth that morning, when he saw pap pictures of Louis and Marsh having dinner together in a cozy restaurant. “It was _so_ boring,” Louis guaranteed with a dismissive gestured. Harry forced a laugh and took his shirt out before something could give him away.

By midnight, they were blissfully sleeping entangled together. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to sleep that earlier – he felt busier and more tired than ever, even though he hadn’t made a translation in months and had barely touched his songwriting notebooks, the things that used to consume most of his free time.

He blamed it on that bloody horrible year. It was draining all of his life energy. 

That night was perfect, though, and he slept deeply and constantly without noticing Olivia biting on his toes or how much Louis moved in bed, changing his position all the time. He was one hundred per cent out, which made him wake up happy and well-rested the next morning, feeling like nothing could drag him down.

The feeling would surely have lasted if his Louis-alert wasn’t flashing with fifty-four new results. His empty stomach dropped, and he felt faint. Only feeding on Twix for an entire day hadn’t been his best idea – he felt dizzy while he waited for the alert to load, in those few seconds while he panicked with the thoughts of what could have happened.

He looked at Louis beside him, who was quietly snoring.

He looked at Olivia by his feet, who looked at him back with her yellow, knowing eyes.

Then he started reading the alerts, and got confused. Even though it was under Louis’ name, all the articles had Julio Calderas’ name on the headline and different pictures of the footballer illustrating them – some of him playing, some of his shirtless, some of him playing shirtless. Harry opened the first one, from Juicy News (one day he would stop giving them the clicks they didn’t deserve, but today was not that day) and went through the story.

In his hazy state, he hadn’t even noticed the most important thing: every headline was combining the name of Calderas with the words “comes out as gay”. It was a good thing he wasn’t consuming any liquid, because his dramatic veins were still intact and he would have surely spilled said liquid all over his bed.

Julio Calderas, as in Louis’ ex-boyfriend and tragic love, an active player in one of the biggest football teams around the world, had just come out. He skimmed through the Juicy News article enough to find what outlet had broken the news, and proceeded to scroll down to the original Guardian one. Besides the written piece, there was also a recorded interview with the footballer.

The exclusive was given to Theresa Cunningham, the journalist who Harry had become acquainted in the charity event he attended earlier that year. He quickly shared the article on his work chat, so Niall could get to it, and then started reading. It didn’t take long for him to see how Louis connected to the news – Calderas didn’t talk about their relationship, but right on the subhead it said he was rumoured to have dated boxer.

It was sort of unnecessary, but nothing too harmful. What made Harry’s heart race was having no idea how Louis would react to the news. Did Calderas tell him beforehand? Would he feel the pain of their breakup all over again? Even more so, he was itching to know the reasoning behind Calderas’ decision – had he decided to come out now, or had he been pushed to it?

_mediahatesqueer_ ’s comment once more rang in his head, saying something about an unclear picture of Louis having sex with another man, a man that could well have been Calderas. Harry bit his phone, frustrated for not knowing if that picture even existed, who had it, or who had sent it. But that was not a time for frustration to take over. He needed to focus.

Harry very gently rocked Louis’ body, murmuring “Babe, wake up” on his ear. After some minutes of insistence – he was obviously not the only one to have a restoring night’s sleep –, Louis fluttered his eyes open and grinned at him, stretching his body in the bed much like Olivia did.

“Hi angel,” he greeted, kissing Harry’s hand.

“Hey pumpkin,” Harry said, letting a smile creep on his worried face. He kissed Louis all over his face, not caring much for his morning bad breath until he remembered he had some tough news to share. “Look, nothing bad happened, but I need to tell you something.”

Louis stared at him suspiciously, eyebrow raised and all.

“Say it.”

“Julio has come out. Maybe he’s told you he was–”

“Julio has _what_?” Ok, so no telling beforehand.

“He, erm, came out to… It was in an interview to the Guardian.”

“Julio, as in my ex-boyfriend Julio?” Louis unnecessarily asked, looking seven hundred times more awaken now. Harry felt that they had already gone through that conversation, but maybe it only took place in his mind a few minutes ago.

“Yes, that Julio,” he said, offering his mobile for Louis to read. Louis looked around for his glasses until finding them bellow Harry’s bed, put them on and squinted his eyes to read on the small screen: **MANCITY FORWARD JULIO CALDERAS COMES OUT AS GAY: “There’s no shame in who I am.”**

Louis blinked at the screen many, many times before scrolling down and reading the interview in silence. Harry didn’t know what was the right thing to do, so he just sat there and let the boxer finish.

“Fuck,” was Louis final verdict.

Instead of saying anything dumb, Harry got up, prepared them both a cup of tea, and got back to bed. Louis was watching the video now, and stretched an arm so Harry would fit under it and they could watch the video together.

Theresa spoke very calmly, as did Calderas, and they discussed his decision to come out, the possible implications and his wish to inspire others in a similar situation.

“I’m tired of omitting and sometimes straight up lying because of my sexual orientation,” Julio was explaining. “This only led to pain and destroyed some of my most important relationships.”

Harry didn’t look at Louis, but he was pretty sure the man wasn’t breathing.

“I want to stress that I have my club’s full support on my decision to come out,” the footballer continued, and proceeded to mention a campaign that would be launched that week to fight against homophobia in football.

“He’s so much better at his than I am,” Louis eventually said under his breath, after they spent full minutes only staring at the black screen.

“You should call him,” Harry blurted out, still debating if he even had the right of giving any opinion. He probably didn’t, but it sounded like the right thing to do. “If you still have his number, I mean. I think it’s important that you… I don’t know, sorry, I shouldn’t butt in.”

Louis looked at him, a bit glossy-eyed. Harry wanted to hug the man and tell him he was proud of him, proud of what he had achieved even if he was going through a bumpy road now. Louis squeezed his hand and murmured, “You’re a very, very nice person, Harry,” before getting out of bed with his phone in hand.

Olivia curled up on his lap, blissfully a cat and unaware of the world full of complications that surrounded her. Harry tried to imagine what he would do in their situation – Calderas or Louis or any well-known person who needed to give similarly frightening interviews to justify who they were to the world –, but there was no way he could fathom it. Harry never had to lie, omit or bend the truth. He felt like he had grown up in a happy bubble, where homophobia wasn’t really a pressing issue and he could say things like, “Mum, I think I fancy Dylan from year 11,” without having to worry about harmful consequences.

It was shocking going to university and realising that there were people who were, in fact, really bugged or full on angry by the fact he was a man who liked other men. And those weren’t naïve, ignorant people who didn’t know any better – they were highly educated young adults who seemed to fuel on hate just because they could.

Harry tried to imagine the kind of conversation Louis would have with Calderas. He usually had no problem in talking to people, but that was a hell of an awkward situation, congratulating the man for doing the very same thing that made their relationship fall apart some time before.

What Harry didn’t picture was a very loud and angry Louis almost screaming, “You got _what_?” over the phone. He sat straight so fast, in the hopes it could help him hear better, that he startled the sleepy Olivia on his lap. His cat looked hurt and got out of bed, searching for a better place to nap where people didn’t make such sudden movements.

He resisted the urge to get up as well and tiptoe to the doorframe to try and understand why Louis was suddenly filled with rage. So he waited, checking his instagram feed, ignoring his boss’ email reacting to Calderas coming out (the subject was IT’S TIME WE WRTITE ABOUT HOMOPHOBIA IN SPORTS, caps lock and all) and sharing a dumb cat video with his sister.

Louis eventually hung up, but soon was in a second call that started with, “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me, Payne?” (Harry was trying hard not to eavesdrop, _really_ , but sometimes Louis got heated over something and made it very loudly clear.) It was a way too broad set of emotions to go through on a Sunday morning.

When he got back to bed, Louis was in thirty different shades of red, breathing heavily and almost crushing the mobile he held. He was obviously not okay, so Harry didn’t ask – he wasn’t sure he should ask anything at all, given the fuming state Louis found himself in.

So he only whispered, “Louis?” in the softest way he could.

“Do you think it is too early to make the move from drug user to full on felon?”

Harry didn’t answer, waiting for what came next. He didn’t even touch Louis, afraid of accidentally setting off any fuses.

“His timing was not at random,” Louis continued, breathing in and breathing out in a rhythmic succession, the classic technique to control anxiety. Harry counted the breathings in his mind, as if that helped with anything. “There are sex pictures of me and Julio floating around – he got an e-mail of someone blackmailing him, and apparently I _also_ got one of those, but my fucking team thought it was a great idea to hide it from me.”

Harry was startled for a moment, surprised at how everything pierced together. _mediahatesqueer_ was telling the truth all along, burying it in a tiny comment section of a tiny, tiny blog.

“Julio decided to get the upper hand and willingly give an interview instead of being outed by these fucking bloody bastards.” He breathed in – one, two, three, four – and then breathed out – one, two, three, four. Harry hated the world for screwing over such a good person again and again and again, almost as timed as those breathes.

“They didn’t want you to worry, I’m sure that’s why they didn’t mention anything. Liam and whoever else, I mean. You already have plenty on your plate.”

“It’s my life, Harry, I’m pretty sure I should be worrying. I’m not a fucking kid who can’t handle the ugly parts of the world.”

Louis’ teacup was empty. Maybe Harry should get up and make some more tea. _He_ was certainly feeling like a child, having no idea of what to do and trying to resist the pull of just running away.

“Do you think the pictures were sent to any websites?” Harry asked, staying put despite the urges.

“Liam says he isn’t sure. Maybe Juicy News is typing down a post to go with them at this very minute, or any other low level, despicable publication that...” Louis turned his head on the pillow and screamed for a full minute.

Harry touched his lower back, and then spooned his whole little body, trying to convey the message of _everything will be okay, you can handle this, things will be better soon_ without finding the words to say it.

* * *

It was an interesting combination of people, to say the least, all squeezed in Callahan’s not big enough office. Most were standing, because there were not enough chairs in the room (or at the Overview) for everybody to sit. Harry was one of them, on the right corner of the office behind Callahan’s desk, quietly observing the meeting unfold.

Some of the other people present were Louis, Liam, Malik and the mysterious lady who he had seen before at the Chelsea house. She had time for introductions this time, introducing herself as Mita Palla, the solicitor responsible for Louis’ defense in the Cooke lawsuit. On the other side of the desk, there was Calderas, his manager and his solicitor. Jesy and Niall were standing on the corner opposite to him, and Callahan seemed swollen by the sea of people around him while sitting behind his desk.

Monday mornings didn’t use to be so busy.

Callahan was briefing everybody on the Cooke research that was taking place. Other topics already covered in their little meeting were: the immediate threat of the nude pictures leaking to the press; the likely involvement of Cooke in the whole thing; and what were the legal measures that could be taken to prevent those pictures of ever seeing the light of day. Calderas’ interview seemed to have shaken whatever immediate plans the publications had for the pictures, but they were certainly not clear just yet.

More than anything, Harry was trying his best not to look at Louis. He knew it wasn’t the time for his mind to wonder, and even less the moment to be taken by jealousy, but there was something in the way Louis touched Calderas’ arm when they greeted each other that morning that made him a bit nauseous.

Louis’ relationship with Marsh could be fake, but his involvement with the footballer had been very, very real. Rationally, Harry knew he shouldn’t be bothered. Louis was a grown man, free to make any decision regarding his love life, and Harry was ready to accept it. As his teenage-self already knew, heartbreaks were a lot less dramatic in adulthood even when they hurt like a bitch.

But the irrational and petty parts of him were boiling.

Focus on the bloody serious topic being discussed, goddammit, he repeated to himself over and over, trying to process Callahan’s words while his brain was half-occupied by something else, repeating like a mantra that he shouldn’t look at Louis.

But he did. Their eyes met for a brief moment, because Louis also happened to be looking at him. Maybe his mind was playing tricks, maybe there was a hint of a smile on Louis’ lips. He diverted his eyes to Niall instead, who had also already been staring at him with a raised eyebrow and knowing expression.

“We still don’t have enough solid information,” his boss was explaining, “because the gobshite – pardon my French – is very well connected and people are willing to delay processes that should take no time at all. But,” and then he sounded brighter, “my people have gathered seven different testimonies from former clients who suffered some form of abuse in his hands. Two of them claimed to have hard evidence of it.”

By “my people”, he meant Jesy and Niall, but Callahan made it sound like he had undercover agents working on Cooke’s team and seeking to destroy him from the inside. Malik seemed to like it, because he said,

“That’s great. Could we have access to what you’ve got so far?”

“I don’t think it’s possible,” Callahan replied very politely, making the publicist deflate. That very meeting they were having was tiptoeing on the line between ethical and unethical; sharing the material they had gathered with somebody who didn’t have the same journalistic purpose they did was completely crossing it to the wrong side. “We need to have as much information on Cooke’s wrongdoings as possible, and that’s my interest here.”

“Leaking sensitive pictures is also a criminal offense,” added Calderas’ solicitor, an older man with the benevolent appearance of Bernie Sanders. Harry had already forgotten his name. There were too many people in the small room, which made him a bit claustrophobic, which in turn made his mind foggy and forgetful. “If we can prove to some extend of clarity that Mr. Cooke is the one behind it, we will certainly be able to prosecute.”

Harry loved the way that British-Sanders spoke, even slower than he did.

“We’ll be on it,” Jesy guaranteed from her corner, getting a look from Callahan.

“I’m contacting some old acquaintances who know people working for the lowest gossip websites,” their boss said. “If we hear that anybody in the press have the pictures, we’ll let you know.”

“But if Cooke is really the one behind it,” that was Louis speaking, the first time he had opened his mouth in that morning, “and he’s trying to pressure me – us – because he wants to force a settlement in the lawsuit, we should be relatively save now that the, erm, information in the pictures is sort of public knowledge, right?”

Harry could feel Louis’ discomfort like a palpable thing. How awkward could it be sit on a room full of people and discuss the imminent leak of intimate pictures of you and your former lover? He wanted to strangle Cooke, or whoever had those pictures, for making Louis and Calderas go through that.

“Well, that would certainly make the evil plan have less traction,” opined Palla. Harry liked her too. She seemed determined, intelligent and careful, which were great characteristics for a solicitor dealing with such a tricky situation, and he was glad that the boxer seemed to surround himself with such capable people.

(After the meeting, she would take Harry by the arm and stare at his face for two minutes before saying, “Aah, I know where I’ve seen you before! You have that youtube channel, right? I like the way you sing.” therefore becoming Harry’s new favourite person in the world.)

“I think we’re done here, then. I’ll keep you informed if anything relevant happens, and you can share with us any new discoveries on Cooke,” Callahan said, getting up from his chair. “Mr. Calderas, thank you a lot for coming, we’ll be in touch. Mr. Tomlinson, likewise,” he shook both men’s hands in succession.

They started leaving the room one by one, like schoolchildren in a line. Harry wanted to talk to Louis, but watched him go with the others not knowing how to say “Excuse me, Louis, could you stay a minute longer while everybody is leaving this very serious meeting we’ve just had?” without sounding suspicious.

Callahan took that opportunity to inform everyone about what Jesy and Niall had been working on, just like he did with Harry when the younger man arrived at the magazine that morning. Harry thought he was quite successful in feigning his surprise, assuring his boss that he would share any relevant information he had on the topic, if Louis ever mentioned it (which wasn’t entirely true, since Louis had already shared some very relevant information he had no intention of sharing, but at least he could collaborate with his own sideline research).

His boss then proceeded to tell him that both Louis and Calderas would be at the magazine in fifteen minutes for a meeting arranged by Malik, a meeting in which he would like Harry to participate, making Harry lose all his aura of pretense and lock himself in the loo not to publicly freak out.

Thankfully he didn’t need to do anything suspicious to extend his talk with Louis, because shortly after all the guests left the newsroom, Harry’s phone buzzed with a message from the man.

_snugged in the cafeteria on the first floor, come meet me xxxx_

Looking around, he decided it was safe to get downstairs. Callahan seemed busy while furiously typing an e-mail after sharing the news, Jesy and Niall were plotting Cooke’s decay and the others quickly got back to work. Nobody would care if he went missing for some minutes, so he just told “I’m going to grab something to eat” to no one in particular and left the newsroom.

It took him three seconds to spot a covered-face Louis on the corner of the cafeteria. Harry never went there because their coffee was horrible and they had the annoying habit of putting some sort of meat in absolutely _everything_ they made, but he was ready to compromise.

“What the fuck just happened,” Louis whispered to him, sounding more suspicious than he would if he just spoke normally.

“You can speak normally,” Harry advised.

“What the fuck just happened,” Louis repeated, then, in his normal tone of voice. A very smiling waitress brought him a sandwich and a large coke. “I don’t think it could get any more awkward than that. The whole thing made me feel hungry.”

“Yeah, it was…” he wasn’t sure how to describe it. Everything had gone well, but it had the same potential to go really badly. “How are you feeling?”

“Angry, stressed, confused, all at the same time like a good fifteen-year old fan of Simple Plan back in the 2000s.”

“You kind of come across as a Simple Plan fan.”

“I spent half of the first money I got going to one of their concerts and having a meet and greet,” Louis told very proudly, “which is entirely not the point right now.”

“Unfortunately, or I could tell you all about my MCR obsession.”

“I was glad you were there with me,” Louis said, taking Harry’s hand above the table. “Yesterday and today. What a couple of shitty days, having to discuss the impending threat of having my sex life exposed to the whole world. And I’m sorry I didn’t mention anything about today because Malik today me, like, three hours ago.”

“You don’t need to apologise. You’re probably the last person in all England today who needs to apologise,” Harry growled, feeling a great difficulty to process the anger he felt because of the whole situation. He would need five extra sessions with Nevenka to deal with it.

“You’re crushing my hand, I think.”

“It just– it makes me very angry thinking that… you know, it’s not fair. None of it.”

“Well, life has no commitment to being fair,” Louis replied with a resigned sigh. “All we can do is deal with this one more thing now.”

They got silent for a moment, then, as Harry watched him eat and pondered if it was the right time to ask the thing that was bugging him. He was afraid of coming off as jealous, which only a small and ugly part of him was, when mostly he thought it was an important thing to address. Eventually his reasoning process got to the wonderful _fuck it_ stage, and he asked,

“How are things between you and Julio?”

Louis looked at him, confused and annoyed. “What things?”

“It must have been… I mean, I don’t you how much you kept in touch these past years, and then this happens out of the blue, and…”

Once again, he was babbling and he hated it. Not finding the right words to convey what he wanted to say made his anxiety take over like a nine-tentacle monster.

“Harry, there’s absolutely nothing going on–”

“That’s not what I meant, Lou. I just want to know if you’re okay. I really want you to be okay, and I know how important Julio was for you.”

Louis finished eating and emitted one last long sigh before saying anything.

“It’s been a ride,” he eventually replied, looking down at his plate. “Yesterday, when you told me about his coming out, I got very… I don’t know how to put it. It was weird, remembering at once everything we went through, remembering how much he wanted to do that, how it was _our_ plan. At the same time, I felt so stoked for him, and it made me miss him in a way I hadn’t felt in months. But then he told me about the pictures, and the mood changed so fast I could barely process.”

Harry reached out across the table to hold Louis’ hands again, stroking the boxer’s soft skin with his thumbs and silently encouraging him to go on.

“I felt violated, attacked in a way that I couldn’t fathom. We were always so careful with that sort of thing, paranoid even, and it still happened. Julio thinks it’s a hack of some sort, like that webcam thing? I don’t know what happened, all I know is that I felt it in my bones that Cooke was the one behind them and I wanted to fucking kill him.

“And I think that more than anything,” Louis pondered, still not quite looking Harry in the eyes. “I felt guilty for dragging Julio in this mess for having chosen a bloody psycho as my manager. When I left your place, I called him again, so we could talk properly, and he told me he was in London because of the interview and everything else that’s happening. Then we decided to talk things over during dinner,” and he paused, as if waiting for Harry to say something.

 “Go on,” Harry retorted in a neutral tone, not sure of how he should react. The amount of feelings he had to process was becoming too overwhelming.

“I’m sorry for not telling you about that either,” Louis said, shaking his head.

“You don’t _have_ to tell me things. I mean, I’m very happy that you decided to tell me about it, but I know you have a lot on your plate right now and I really don’t want to… I don’t know. How was the dinner?”

Louis finally tore him eyes from the table and looked at Harry, giving him a faint smile.

“It was very good having that time with him, even if it was motivated by this shit show. We hadn’t talked in ages, and it was good to… I felt like finally getting some real closure, you know? Like I finally didn’t have to wonder _what if_ anymore, because I could see that we had something great together that is over now, and I shouldn’t feel guilty about moving on.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a bit lighter than some seconds ago. The world around them was on the verge of crumbling, but he felt very glad to have this one thing, to be able to sit down with Louis and listen to him talk so candidly. They were having a good thing. They could have a good thing, wherever that led them to.

They headed to the exit of the building not long after that. They looked at each other for some time, not saying anything, and Louis kissed him right there, in the middle of a very busy street, making Harry’s knees weaken.

Louis called a taxi then, and before going in, looked awkward as he said, “Harold, listen, I know it may be too much, but I’ve… I’ve got some Finn duties this week and I’ll be horribly busy in general, but I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay? I don’t even know how to thank you for everything.”

Finn Marsh sounded like the least of his worries now, but the name still irrationally bothered him. It didn’t matter, though, not really – Louis was there, publicly displaying his affection for him, assuring him that he was ready to move on from the past. Harry felt cherished in a way he hadn’t in a long time, and he knew right then that he trusted Louis no matter what.

Harry kissed him one more time before letting him go.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no leak. November ended with apocalyptical tones to it, but at least there were no nude pictures of Louis “The Tommo” Tomlinson with Manchester United forward Julio Calderas spread in gossip outlets. They were safe, and as the weeks passed, it seemed more likely that they would keep that way.

Harry was doing the sun salutation every day when he woke up, with Olivia biting his ankles at every movement. Louis thought it was ridiculous and laughed every time he was there to witness it, but Harry didn’t care – he felt that after such a weird and shittier than not year, he should value what the things he was thankful for.

He was thankful for his family, his friends, and his cat, and his creativity that allowed him to compose some pretty nice songs every once in a while, his resolution to cut toxic people out of his life, his ability with the French language that gave him some trouble but also allowed him to get some extra money when needed, his yoga instructor who had taught him that very salutation in the first place, the delicious food he ate and prepared, the books he read, the pictures he used to take but wasn’t investing that much time anymore.

And lately, he had been very, very, very thankful for Louis.

Things were going very well between them. There was a skeptical part of him that insisted in saying that things _always_ went well in the beginning, until the inevitable moment when things went south and Harry would end up alone and feeling miserable all over again. Instead of fighting it, Harry decided to embrace his fears and deal with them in the best way he could. Every time he started feeling anxious about what could happened, he took the time to remind himself that he should be mindful and enjoy the present.

He was enjoying it as much as possible, relearning how to interact with Louis. Sometimes, when they were talking, Harry would feel like he was interviewing Louis more than enjoying a conversation with the man he was seeing. It was a handful to deconstruct the boxer’s celebrity persona as he showed Harry his genuine-self little by little, the side that didn’t need to be diplomatic and careful with his words all the time.

Harry also got to share more about himself, and it didn’t hit him how much he ached for that kind of intimacy – to just lay with someone and rant freely about his thoughts, text them about the ordinary things that were happening in his day – until he started sharing it with Louis. He missed having a real relationship, and the happiness he felt in having the chance of building one was stronger than his worries.

He thought about that and then nothing in particular, as he stretched his body all over the yoga mat, head up. And then head down while he used both his hand to support his half-bended body, and all the way up until he had concluded three of those sequences.

“I like your arse in these yoga shorts,” was Louis’ verdict as he came out of the kitchen.

“You should be more appreciative of the ancient arts,” retorted Harry, sitting on the mat with his legs stretched. “Is that my last yogurt?”

“Sorry, I was really hungry and you wouldn’t stop doing the…” Louis gestured the yoga poses. Harry wanted to growl and grab the yogurt for himself, but instead took a deep breath and exercised the art of letting go.

“It’s fine. I’ll make myself some oatmeal, are you still hungry?”

“Sounds great.”

They headed back to the kitchen together, and Louis sat on the cupboard, trying to dodge Olivia away from the spoon full of yogurt. Harry took a moment to appreciate the domesticity of the moment, savouring it for as long as he could, and he thought it was the perfect moment to ask, “Don’t you want to go to a wedding with me?”

The thing is that the night before he was chatting with Maya, and she casually shared the news that she was getting married next February, saying that she would very much love to have Harry as her best man (“I’m not sure if this is allowed, but I’m not getting married to a lady to follow heteronormative wedding rules.”) He felt like weeping, imagining his friend in a wedding dress sharing such a special moment with the woman she loved, and then expressed how honoured he was by the invitation.   

Louis’ spoon stopped mid-air, and Olivia took the chance of licking it.

“Erm. Who is getting married?”

“A friend of mine from Manchester, Maya.”

“And when is it?”

“February 12th.”

Louis washed out the yogurt that Olivia had licked and kept eating.

“I’d love to go with you, Harry, but I’m not sure if I… You know, because technically I’m in a relationship with Finn, and I don’t know when _that_ will be over, and it would be sort of strange if I just showed up at a wedding arm to arm with another man.”

Harry didn’t feel angry, because he was committed to his road to enlightenment. He furiously stirred the oatmeal instead.

“Yeah, I get it. It was a silly idea anyway. I could probably take Niall or something.”

“Babe, it’s not silly at all and I’m flattered that you invited me, but…” Louis started rambling, but soon realised he was just making things worse. “I’m sure Niall will be a great plus one,” he said instead, sounding genuinely happy with the thought.

_Too bad Niall isn’t the one I’m dating_ , Harry angrily replied in his head.

“Speaking of Niall, when will I properly be introduced to him? I think it’s time.”

“Oh, we can do it whenever you can. He has told me to invite you over approximately eight hundred times. He’s a big fan, so just don’t find it weird if he intensely stares at you or something.”

“It’s nice to have an arse-kissing moment every once in a while,” Louis retorted with a smirk.

The yogurt was finally over. Louis threw the package in the recycle bin and washed the dishes on the sink. He could have some small flaws such as having a fake boyfriend with whom he took ridiculously couple-y pictures every other Thursday and which prevented him from attending public events with Harry, but he was a keeper in general.

* * *

After publishing a very well-received edition revolving around the craziness of post-electoral America and the rise of the extreme-right in Europe, speculating about how that could lead to a new world order, the December edition of the Overview would revolve around new economic theories after the failure of what Callahan referred to as the Friedman model. Harry had no idea of who Friedman was and what his model was about, nor had he the intention of figuring out. His main task was to put up a list of movies that dealt with the topic in an easy to understand way, and then explore start-ups who were riding the wave of shared economy, setting up a few interviews.

Everybody was more than happy to let Leigh-Anne, who was penning the cover article, deal with the cold hard facts and figures. Niall was tentatively working on the scandals of corruption in the Premier League, trying to link it to devalued teams and lower technical level of players. Summed with his research on Cooke, he constantly spotted a disgusted face every time sports were mentioned.

But he was definitely cheered up when Harry announced, “It’s time.”

“We’re hanging out with Louis?”

“We’re hanging out with Louis.”

“Fuck, it took you ages, man! I started to think you were embarrassed of me. I’m going to ask Lisa to get the best weed–” he stopped when he saw the look of Harry’s face. “Oops, no drugs for Louis, of course. But you guys can come over anytime. I’ve been meaning to try this recipe of vegan chili that I think you’ll enjoy.”

“Just swear to me you won’t talk to him about golfing. I don’t want him to know how lame my friends are.”

“What, _why_. Golfing is great.”

“When you’re a millionaire in your fifties, maybe.”

“Your casual disrespect for the things I love actually pains me.”

“Come on, Nialler. I love almost everything you do, but the golf thing is too much.”

“Maybe I’ll spill on your chili.”

“Niall.”

“Just kidding, I’d never do that, it’s gross.”

“I think Louis has a documentary thing on Tuesday, and Thursdays are Marsh days,” Harry made a vomiting motion, “so Wednesday would be perfect for us, what do you think?”

“I like the way you say _us_ meaning you and Louis. My best friend is getting it on with a world famous star,” Niall said, trying to pinch Harry’s cheeks. He managed to dodge his friend and sent a message to the boxer asking if he was up to having a dinner at Niall’s on Wednesday.

“It’s great until he rejects my invitation to go to a wedding with me.”

“What, to Maya’s wedding?” Niall looked scandalised over his potato soup. “How could he turn it down?”

“Because I’m the unofficial real boyfriend, and things could get ugly with his fake one if god forbid the media found out he was going to places with another man, which is a clear indication of doomsday.”

He reasoned it was okay to show his anger if it was to Niall. Because he _was_ angry, there was no use in denying that anymore, not when he could feel the heat on his cheeks and his hands were slightly shaking.

“Calm down, man, you’re as red as that pepper.”

“I’m calm,” Harry said while destroying a piece of bread and then drowning it in the soup.

“You’ve never been the jealous type, why is this getting to you if it’s not even real? I mean, it sucks that Louis can’t go with you, but he does have a point because we know he has more than enough controversy to deal with.”

Harry contemplated drowning Niall as well in his small bowl of soup, but got distracted by Louis’ reply less than a minute later saying, _sure i can’t wait!! [happy frog face emoji]_. He growled in frustration at the boxer’s cuteness.

“You should talk to him about Marsh, if it’s bugging you this much,” Niall added.

“I know I should talk to him about it,” he retorted, sounding harsh than he wanted to. “I just don’t know how to get there – should I just say, you know, hi Louis I know this thing isn’t real and you have your reasons to go through with it, but when are you fake breaking up with your fake as hell boyfriend?”

Niall nodded, finishing up his soup with a happy sigh. “That sounds like it. I mean, you stood on a room while Louis was discussing his sex pictures with another man while that said man was _also_ present in the room, how difficult can this one be?”

“Have I told you how much I hate it when you make sense?”

Niall sent him a mocking kiss from the other side of the table.

“Well, and would you be my plus one at Maya’s wedding?”

* * *

As logical as the just-talk-to-Louis-thing sounded, like most things it was easier said than done. First of all, they didn’t have time for it, with Louis being busy all over the weekend. Harry didn’t want to start a potential fight in the seventeen minutes they had to interact, and chose instead to enjoy the coffee and cake he had ordered with no worries and listen to the story of how Louis met David Beckham.

In order to forget the topic that was bugging him, he did his usual thing – buried himself into so many things to do, he barely had time to breathe on the days before Wednesday. Being tired and sleep deprived gave him no time do dwell over his petty jealousy, plus he got very productive recording two cover songs and finishing up an original one which he entitled _Right Now_.

So that would be a win win situation, if only he managed to ignore the anger boiling inside of him every time the Marsh topic succeeded in creeping into his defenses. Which only happened, like, five times over the course of those days (three times on the day he confirmed his presence at Maya’s wedding and told her he wasn’t sure who was going to be his plus one just yet.)

On Wednesday, he left work before six, took a long shower and spent almost an hour trying to decide on what to wear. It was as if he needed to make a fashion statement that showed to Louis that he was bugged, but understood the situation and would rather pretend Finn Marsh didn’t exist. A feat that would have been easier to accomplish if Marsh’s face wasn’t plastered in every bloody corner, promoting his stupid movie set to premiere in January.

But since Harry had no idea how to convey all of that into one outfit, he soon dropped the idea and just went with the classic combination of tight jeans, flowery shirt, boots and a fancy coat.

“Wow, you look hot,” was the first thing Louis said when Harry opened the door to him. _Hotter than Marsh, I presume_ , Harry thought, biting his tongue and giving space for the other man to come in.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” Harry retorted, an obvious understatement because he wanted to play it cool. Louis looked incredible, wearing a jeans jacket with fur collar and perfectly styled hair which managed to not be ruined by the bigger-than-his-face snapback he always wore to go out. “I love it when you’re not in Adidas.”

Louis laughed, bending his knees to pet Olivia.

“Come on, babe. I just got back their sponsorship, what can I do?”

“Oh, so no more money coming from that dodgy Thai offshore?”

“It wasn’t _theirs_ ,” Louis reminded him, making air quotes.

“But that’s a good thing, right? Being publicly associated with them again.”

“I think so. It’s December, I mean, people would probably have forgotten all about it if the bloody lawsuit was solved.” Louis was starting to sound angry, and since the spot for suppressed ugly feelings in that room was already taken by Harry, he swiftly changed the subject.

“Is that dessert you carry?” he asked, pointing to the bag on Louis’ hand, as if that was his worry all along.

“Yes, microwavable petit gateau and ice cream.”

“You couldn’t have made a better choice! Shall we get going?”

Louis said _bye Olivia, see you later_ with the cutest voice in the world and put on the huge snapback he was carrying. They arrived at Niall and Lisa’s at almost exactly half seven, honouring their national stereotype of punctuality. The whole apartment was filled by delicious smells from different spices, and Harry’s stomach growled.

“Hello!” a beaming Lisa greeted them. She kissed Harry in both cheeks and looked at Louis. “You must be…”

“Louis Tomlinson,” the boxer said, offering his hand. Lisa kissed both of his cheeks as well, instead of accepting the handshake, “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Lisa. Niall says you’re famous but I can’t really place your face because I don’t follow sports very closely,” she explained, making Louis genuinely laugh.

“That’s alright, Lisa. I think you’re making a sensible decision.”

Niall came out of the kitchen then, wearing an apron with a leprechaun on it. “Aye mates, hello!” It was clear that he was trying not to embarrass Harry in front of Louis, but wouldn’t mind embarrassing himself when the opportunity to be a fanboy arose. He sounded overly seriously when he introduced himself to Louis, getting the boxer a strong handshake. “I’m Niall. Horan. Hi.”

“Niall’s a big fan,” Harry said, trying to help his friend.

“Well, I’m honoured and I must say that I’m a fan too. I’ve been following your sports coverage for some time and I think it’s great,” Louis retorted, sounding like a prince. Harry gave an approving squeeze on his arse.

“Oh Louis, you’re so nice and handsome and you smell _so good_ ,” Niall replied, giving up on the handshake and pulling the boxer in for a hug before leaving for the kitchen again. Louis’ only comment was a raised eyebrow to Harry and a huge grin.

“Dinner will be served soon,” Lisa announced. “In the meanwhile, care for some wine?”

With their glasses full, they helped Lisa set the table and Louis went on to explore the room while they waited for Niall to finish cooking. He was impressed by Niall’s sport books collection, and looked at Harry with confusion when he saw the golf equipment on the corner. Harry shrugged, making a _don’t even go there_ sign with his hand.

“Here comes dinner!” Niall announced twenty minutes later, entering the living room with a pan full of perfect smelling chili. There was also rice and nachos and guacamole, setting up an incredible Mexican dinner.

It was kind of difficult to fit everything on the small table, but they managed and were soon serving themselves.

“So Louis, Harry told us you have a fake boyfriend. How does that work?” Lisa asked five minutes into dinner and Harry almost spilled the wine, startled at Lisa’s lack of social boundaries, but mostly surprised about how she could ask in few minutes the question he was holding back for months.

Niall seemed more horrified than even Louis did, murmuring an embarrassed _why would you ask something like that, love_.

“I was just curious,” she justified, going back to her food as if she hadn’t just put the huge elephant in the room under neon lightning.

“It was okay up to some point, but it’s shite when you’ve got an actual boyfriend,” Louis eventually replied, squeezing Harry’s thigh bellow the table. “My team decided it’d be a good thing to have a _stable relationship_ after I got banned, though. You know, because I was already the ugly cheater, god forbid I was also one of _those_ gays.”

“Oh god, did any of them actually _say_ that?” Harry interrupted, forgetting to keep his cool and pretend he wasn’t bothered by the situation, so disgusted that his heart even stopped fluttering from him being referred as Louis’ boyfriend.

“It was implied that it would help my public image and give the impression of responsibility.” Louis sounded like he regretted saying anything, because he quickly added, “This chili is seriously good, Niall.”

“Thanks, mate, it’s very easy to make if you just–”

“Whose idea was it, anyway? Payne? Malik?”

“It was a team thing, Harold. I agreed with it and it will eventually end, so everything is okay.”

But Harry couldn’t stop now.

“Aren’t you tired of people telling you how to live your life, what’s best for your career, what you should do to make you look like a diplomatic robot instead of a human being?”

“Harry, love,” that was Lisa, stretching from the other side of the table to reach his arm and getting some guacamole on hers. “It’s clear that this hurts you and it really sucks. Sometimes we get into situations that are less than ideal. But look at how cute Louis is. Look how cute you are, which makes you both a pretty cute couple… Shouldn’t that be enough?”

She brought Harry’s and Louis’ heads together as if that closed the deal. She was obviously stoned, but something in her short but touching speech made Harry want to cry. She was right, like Niall had been right before, and Harry just kept being stupid instead of seeing reason and enjoying the thing he and Louis were sharing.

“Sorry,” he murmured when Lisa finally let them go. “Sorry,” he repeated, looking at Louis this time, who shook his head as if saying _don’t mention it_. He was surrounded by way too good people. Niall helped Lisa clean the guacamole from her arm, and Harry added, “The chili is brilliant indeed, Niall.”

His friend smiled at him. He squeezed Louis’ leg back.

* * *

The night took a remarkable recover from its almost impending doom. They finished dinner, Louis and Harry took over to washing the dishes, and then they all spread around the tiny living room. It wasn’t the smartest position since Harry was much bigger than Louis, but he nested himself between the boxer’s legs and rested his head on Louis’ chest, with the soft rug rubbing against his back. Niall lightened up a joint and passed it to Harry.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Go on, Harold. I promise I won’t tell.”

“Don’t you want a drag, mate?” Lisa asked, lightening an almost finished one for herself.

“They can trace weed in your system up to six months,” it was Niall who explained.

“So you get repeatedly hit in the face and can’t even smoke some to ease the pain,” she concluded. “What a shitty sport you chose.”

Louis laughed, and filled up his glass of wine. “In my defense, my dream was to be a footballer. But I think my legs were too short for it.”

“Nah, mate, your legs are just fine,” Niall guaranteed.

“Oh, thanks Nialler,” retorted Louis, and they already sounded like old buddies. Harry shouldn’t be surprised, with both sharing that magical spell that made them feel seemingly comfortable with every person on Earth. “At least I can have this… for now,” he added, rising up his glass.

“Then let’s make a toast, fellas!” Lisa suggested, getting up with a suave movement that should be difficult to achieve sober, let alone drunk and stoned. “To Louis, our new friend who likes to take punches,” she commanded.

“To Louis,” they repeated, Louis included.

Niall did talk about golfing, against Harry’s desperate pleads. After the third glass of wine, it was like he couldn’t control himself and was physically forced to get up, go to the corner of the room, and come back with a shiny golf club.

“A Callaway, limited edition,” he explained, bringing the golf club so close to Louis that it almost touched his nose and brushed Harry’s hair.

“I have no idea what these words mean.”

“Oh Louis, you have so much to learn,” Niall retorted, making a _tsk tsk_ sound with his tongue like a disappointed villain from a 90s movie. The next treasured possession he showed off was a golf ball with Padraig Harrington’s autograph on it. “I remembered this day _so clearly_ ,” Niall said, and proceeded to share the memories of how he spent a full hour of friendly conversation with the _living legend of Harrington_.

“Who is this guy?” Louis whispered in Harry’s ear, who shook his head and murmured, “Just go along with it.”

Niall’s golf rant was abruptly brought to an end when the intro to Britney Spears’ _In The Zone_ began playing. Louis emitted a sound suspiciously close to a schoolgirl’s shriek, and gently lifted Harry’s back so he could get up from the floor and go to Lisa, who was already reaching for the closest wall for her performance.

Admitting defeat, Niall sat beside Harry on the floor, who was now leaning against the only sofa in the room.

“I lost him,” his friend lamented as they watched their partners perform to _Me against the music_.

“It’s difficult to compete with the best release of the 2000’s,” Harry retorted, trying to make Niall feel better by patting his shoulder. He would never admit that the dancing was making him a bit horny.

“I really like him, though,” Niall said.

“I know you do, you’ve made that clear.”

“No, I mean, I like _him_. This Louis, the person he is when not punching others for a living. I think you picked a good one.”

“It gets weirder and weirder as you say it, right?”

“Nah, people love punching each other. At least in boxing they get money out of it,” he retorted, even though he knew that was not what Harry referred to.  

“Thanks for inviting us over, Niall,” Harry said as he stretched his body to read the bottle of wine. It was very tasty, making him wonder when they became old enough to stop buying those cheap 3-pound ones, “And sorry for almost ruining everything.”

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m glad you’re letting your feelings out, even if the timing could be reassessed,” Niall waved a dismissive hand at him and accidentally spilled some wine on his shirt in the process. “Oh shit, let me take this out before it becomes a self-feeding monster.”

Niall had barely got up when a laughing mass of limbs, hair and sweat dropped on his lap.

“Your friends are fun,” Louis said after giving him a wine-tasting kiss. Harry smiled, not minding that Louis’ sweat would be all over his trousers. Love endured many things.

“Come on Louis, _Toxic_ is almost coming up,” Lisa called from the end of the room, which meant five steps from where they were. Louis said he just needed to catch his breath for a moment and guaranteed he would be back in a moment.

Harry took Louis’ sweaty hair out of his forehead and stroked his head.

“I like how you fit in.”

“I miss it all the time. Just having…” Louis gestured broadly.

“Regular interactions with friendly people?”

“With people I actually enjoy being around, nonetheless.”

“She used to be a professional dancer, you know?”

“Lisa? That’s cool.”

“Now she works with events and teaches kids at weekends. She even taught _me_ some movements.”

Louis’ eyes filled with expectation. “Ooh, you’ll have to show me those.”

Harry made a _wait_ gesture, finished the glass of wine in one gulp and got up. He made an almost acceptable pirouette, and Louis applauded him. Then he stretched his leg and bended his body, giving a few steps to the side in what should be the classic Swan Lake dance. Niall’s limited edition golf club was dropped in the process.

“And that’s it, basically,” he concluded, making a reverence while pretending to hold up both sides of a tutu.

Louis hugged him from the waist, pulling Harry closer to his body and giving him a peck on the lips. “You’re already my favourite ballet dancer,” he whispered against Harry’s mouth, needing to stay on his tiptoes to do so. “Just don’t tell Lisa.”

The introduction for _Toxic_ started then, and Niall got back to the room to watch the three people there in a complex combination of entangled limbs while making sexy dance moves. He opened down two bottoms of his clean shirt before joining them.

* * *

They left Niall and Lisa’s apartment at almost eleven, still drunk and giggly. It was a Wednesday night and they both needed to rise early the next day, but Harry couldn’t be happier to hear Louis say, “Let’s go somewhere.”

“We’re drunk and tired,” he reasoned even if what he really wanted to say was _anywhere with you_.

Louis considered it for a second. “There’s a bowling alley in Camden that is open until like, two in the morning.”

Harry never went bowling under normal conditions, and was pretty sure he could barely hold the ball under his inebriated state, but that sounded like the best idea coming out of Louis’ mouth, so to Camden they went.

He wasn’t sure of what to expect of a bowling alley in Camden on a Wednesday night, but the _Big Lebowski_ ’s vibe he got as soon as they entered the place made a lot of sense. There wasn’t a person under fifty there, besides them and the bored cashier lady. Louis paid for their lane and offered the bowling-shoes to Harry, who had some difficulty in taking off his boots without falling on the ground.

Some of the men double checked them as they walked to their lane. A big one with tattoos all over his arms whispered something to his friend and discreetly pointed at Louis. Harry got an uneasy feeling, but Louis seemed unbothered as he set up a new game and unnecessarily stretched before starting to play.

“I had no idea you bowled,” he said when Louis threw the first ball, getting eight pins down.

“I don’t, I’ve never been here before.”

“How the fuck could you know about this fourth dimension place if you’ve never been here before?”

“I read about it in a magazine somewhere. I’m spending one hour everyday getting my hair and makeup done because of the documentary, you know. I’ve got plenty of time to collect useless information,” he explained, offering Harry a ball.

He needed a full minute to fit his fingers in the holes, and then carefully threw it, watching the ball go to the gutter in the first meter.

“Harold, you’re not _committing_.”

“You know you sound crazy sometimes, right?”

Louis was certainly aware of that, because he didn’t even flinch before kissing Harry on the mouth in the middle of those old Texan looking men who were surrounding them. No one seemed to mind though, not even the one with the tattoos, reinforcing Harry’s belief that they were, indeed, in an alternative dimension.

“I really like you, Harold,” Louis whispered before getting his second ball. He scored seven more points, and Harry just accepted the fact that Louis was apparently good at everything.

“I really like you too.”

“I feel shitty because of– oh, see, you got it, love!” He applauded Harry for the two points got by complete accident. “I feel shitty because of the whole Finn situation,” he started again, without interruptions. “I’m trying to get out of it as soon as possible, but it’s tricky when it _has_ helped me.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to have that conversation in a Camden bowling alley surrounded by unknown men and still dizzy because of all the wine and weed. Actually, he was pretty sure he _didn’t_ want any of that. And yet, it made him feel six times lighter to know that he and Louis were finally talking about it.

“I’m very cute. I could improve your image all the same.”

Louis laughed even though he was being as serious as he could be under the circumstances, and got nine pins down.

“You’re just lacking the connections, and then you’d make the perfect beard. The timing now is just shitty with the end of the year holidays, his movie premiere, and my second evaluation coming up, so I don’t know if...”

“It’s fine, Lou. Well, it should be fine even though I don’t feel very fine about it, but rationally I know it’s fine because you’re here doing this,” he gestured broadly to the huge fourth-dimension bowling alley, “instead of anything with Finn Marsh. I just wanted… You know what. I don’t even know what I want.”

He threw the ball, which got to the gutter again in a few seconds, making him sit on the bench with defeat on his mouth. Maybe that taste wasn’t completely related to his lack of bowling skills, but sucking at the game wasn’t helpful at all. Louis kneeled before him, supporting his body by putting both his hands on Harry’s thighs.

“Well, I know what _I_ want. What I really, really want,” he added, and Harry giggled a bit, “… is to be with you doing some crazy shit, drinking cheap wine–”

“Wait, you think _that_ was cheap wine?”

“– or maybe just staying in without doing nothing else besides watching shows and eventually having sex because you’re bloody hot and too good at it. I want to be with you, period.”

That was the moment when Harry was supposed to say something slightly sarcastic about how sappy Louis was being, but he was too busy holding back his tears to think of anything witty.

Harry covered Louis’ hands with his own, and said, “I think that’s a great idea.”

On their way out two hours later, after Louis had beaten him three times in the game, the man with the tattoos approached them and said, “Sorry, but are you the Tommo? I’m a huge fan.”

Louis’ smile could power up a small city as he nodded.

“Oh fella, I hope things go your way with everything that’s happening,” the man continued, patting Louis’ shoulder. “You’re a delight for us boxing fans, the best we’ve seen in decades. Your time to get that belt will come, I’m sure of it. Mind for a selfie?”

* * *

On the 24th, Harry lazily packed his things to head home, taking Olivia and all. He wanted more than anything to spend Louis’ birthday with him, but the boxer was enjoying a long-delayed quality time with his family in Doncaster. So Harry dressed up in the bunny costume he wore to celebrate carnival in Germany two years back, and sent Louis a video wishing him a great birthday.

It turned out he was overdue of some family time himself. He almost cried when his mum hugged him tightly on the bus station, and then again when he got to his old teenage bedroom which was now half-turned into fitness room, half-left intact.

The walls were still plastered with different song lyrics, magazine pages and pictures of his secondary school friends. Stevie Nicks’ smiling face greeted him like an old friend, and he didn’t hold back some tears when he found a piece of Leonard Cohen’s Anthem pinned up among the many others.

He had to dust the room to make it habitable for the five days he would spend there, having to sleep on a mattress on the floor because his old bed was long gone. But he didn’t mind, of course, because everything about the familiarity of the place was soothing and inspiring.

His mother was delighted that he had brought Olivia with him, and the cat was treated as a queen, being offered a range of different fish and pet food, dotted on every minute of her waking time.

At Christmas day, after they had enjoyed lunch with the whole extended family, after he had almost cried – he started noticing a pattern of how sensitive he was – at every person who asked him about a _boyfriend_ instead of girlfriend (“Ooh, aunt Claire, I still haven’t found the one,” he would lie with pride swelling inside of him), after he hid with Gemma in the garage to smoke a joint away from everybody, he locked himself in his room and spent a good three hours going through the diaries he religiously kept during his teenage days.

From November to April in year 10, the pages contained mostly love declarations to Dylan Hooton, including poems, badly printed pictures of them both together, and the note Dylan wrote him after they made out in the toilet at his birthday party. It said nothing more than _sorry harry i can’t do this_. After that, there were a couple of torn pages, which Harry clearly remembered writing, full of angst and rage.

Year 11 and year 12 seemed to be happier times, and Harry actually liked some of the poems he found in the five diaries that covered that period (he used to write in such detail that pretty much all the meals he had duringthose years were logged there). He sent one poem he particularly liked to Louis, asking _what do you think of sixteen-year-old harry?_

_brilliant as present-day harry [heart emoji] [heart emoji] [heart emoji] miss you xxxx_ , was the quick answer.

Harry wanted to call him, but instead lay on the floor among the mess of notebooks, too lazy to stretch and get the pillow, only using his hands to support his head. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking about the entire universe and then nothing in particular, and then about his work and Louis and how much he was looking forward to Maya’s wedding, and back to nothing some more.

Eventually his phone rang, and he picked it up in the first ring.

“You know how the tradition of eating turkey at Christmas started?”

Harry shouldn’t be missing that voice so much, considering they had seen each other two days before, and yet.

“I have no idea.”

“Me neither. I thought you’d know.”

“I don’t even eat turkey! I had to spend two hours preparing my own food, can you believe it?”

“Ooh, what a travesty! Holmes Chapel is not treating you right. I’ll have to go there and show these people how it’s done.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Great, I think I can get there in two hours.”

Harry giggled against the phone, thinking about Louis driving all the way from Doncaster just because he couldn’t wait for a few more days before they were back in London. Then he stopped giggling because it could actually be dangerous to drive in the slippery roads full of snow.

“No boo, I don’t want your family to hate me for cutting short your holiday time.”

“Well, you’ve got a fair point. I have to say that things are pretty good here, I’ve been eating so much delicious food that I’m not sure if I ever want to go back to London.”

“I’m sure Ryan will have loads of fun when you go back.”

Louis growled at the thought of getting back to the heavy training routine, which was getting more and more demanding as April approached. They shared stories about their respective Christmas and Harry read some other good poems from his younger self until he heard a girl scream on Louis’ side, “Louis you fucker, you promised you’d help me with the dishes!”

“Hmm, I think someone is calling you?”

“Who? Never heard of that crazy girl before.”

“Come on, don’t run away from your chores.”

“Harold, why do you only want to make me suffer?”

“We’ll talk later, yeah?”

The girl screamed something else again, but this time he couldn’t really make it out.

“Get going, love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis answered without even flinching. Harry muffled his scream and shook his legs in a celebratory way.

When he opened his eyes, regaining composure, he noticed that Gemma was standing on the doorframe looking at him very suspiciously, narrowed eyes and all. He put his phone away as if it was on fire.

“Who was that?” she asked, pointing at the phone.

“Aren’t you supposed to knock?”

“You’re past wanking age, I don’t need to knock anymore,” she said with a dismissive tone. “Who _was_ that?”

“Nobody, Gemma. What are you doing here anyway?” She gave him even narrower eyes, but seemed to settle for a temporary truce.

“Mum asked me to check if you were alive,” she explained, “and she’s calling us to play Clue downstairs.”

* * *

After five days, a minimum amount of work, two long phone calls with Louis and a surprise visit from Maya, who was close around visiting her own family, it was time for Harry to pack again and head back to London. He had to make extra room in his luggage to fit the notebooks, and it took them almost an hour to give Olivia her sleeping medicine for the trip, but soon enough he was ready to go.

London was getting filled with the tourists who wanted to spend their New Year Eve’s by the impossibly cold banks of the Thames. On the other hand, many people went away at the first chance in order to spend the day anywhere else. Niall was one of those, having sent Harry forty-two pictures of his hometown since he arrived in Ireland.

Harry wasn’t the only one who didn’t get the tourists. Louis sent him a five-minute audio message complaining about the traffic and saying, _I can’t see their logic, it’s like… a half frozen river by a tiny clock tower, what’s the fun in it?_

They had set up their own plans for the New Year’s Eve. Louis was throwing a party at a rented house in the outskirts of the city, to which some “close buddies”, as he defined, were invited. It must have been clear on Harry’s face what he wanted to ask, because he didn’t even need to say it before Louis clarified that yes, Finn Marsh would be there. They would need just to take some pictures, and that was it.

It was incredibly lonely to be back to his apartment, just him and Olivia trying to get warmer in a chili December night. He already missed the constant liveliness of his mum’s house in Holmes Chapel, and Louis’ arms to spoon him in bed. New Year Eve’s couldn’t come fast enough.

He woke up early the next day, cleaned the entire place, gave Olivia her favourite food and worked during his designated shift for the magazine. He spent the whole time thinking about how fast the year had gone by – even with the successive amount of wrong decisions made by humanity, or because of it. He was genuinely excited for what was to come.

The next step was lightening up countless candles and spreading them through the place. Their smell was soothing like a morning in the countryside. Harry packed a small bag with two pants, a pair of jeans, two plain black t-shirts, the handcuffs he would give Louis as a late birthday gift and the sunglasses he would give Louis as a late Christmas gift.

Olivia’s pet sitter was a 20-year-old fashion design student who lived two floors above him and had recently moved. She had at least the double of Harry’s tattoos and a very sweet smile. He spent an additional twenty minutes at her place while she showed him the pattern collection she had been working on, and then he kissed Olivia goodbye and giggled a _see you next year_.

At four in the afternoon, a car arrived to get him just as Louis promised. He slept through the entire ride, and woke up to find himself in front of a place that couldn’t be described as much more than _good lord this is fucking huge_. The rented house looked more like a castle, having at least three floor and taking up the space of an entire block. It was at that moment that it hit him – he was going out with a very, very rich man.

The driver wanted to carry his tiny bag for him, but he declined politely and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. “I think you can just go ahead inside then, sir,” the driver solicitously told him.

Harry thanked the driver and walked to the entrance of the house. There was a small and friendly man there, with a list in hand who greeted him saying, “Hello, handsome! What’s your name?”

“Harry Styles.”

“Harry Styles, what a rock star name!” the man said while looking through the list of guests he had. From the looks of it, Louis had around five hundred close buddies.

“Maybe I am one in Australia,” Harry retorted with a wink and his best fake accent, and the man giggled.

“Oh, Mr. Styles, I like you already. Here’s your bracelet, make sure you have it on at all times, okay? You don’t want to be taken as an intruder.”

If Harry used the adjective posh to describe the Chelsea house, he would need one at least three times more intense to describe that one. The whole first floor was being decorated with white balloons and white fabric, with tables everywhere and a big **BRING IT ON, 2017** spread through the right wall. Harry thought it was unwise to challenge the upcoming year, especially after the one that was finishing, but he snapped a picture of the decoration and sent it to Niall. His friend quickly responded with a selfie of him and Lisa with a black goat.

The second and third floors were going to be used by the guests. Harry climbed the stairs on his tiptoes, afraid of breaking something by accident, and looked for the room numbered 28, as the nice man had instructed him downstairs.

“Who is it?” Louis screamed from inside the room after he knocked on the door.

“It’s me.”

The door was opened in less than a second, with a beaming Louis wearing nothing but a towel to greet him. Harry felt his knees weaken a bit; from his body’s reaction, one would think that he had been apart from Louis for seven years, and not the few days over the Christmas holiday. He didn’t even let Louis finish asking, “How was your–” before closing the door behind him, carelessly throwing his bag to a side and pulling the man by the waist. He kissed him with the intensity of the most desperate, and they stumbled until reaching the huge bed in the middle of the room. In no time, Louis’ towel was making company to Harry’s bag.

“You smell good,” Harry whispered against his skin.

“I missed you.”

It made Harry proud that he had barely touched Louis and the boxer was already getting hard. Louis should also be proud of himself, because Harry was no better. He kissed Louis’ inner thighs, bit his crotch, sucked his dick with such enthusiasm that he soon had to stop to catch his breath for a moment.

Louis got his upper body up and took Harry’s messy hair out of his face. The boxer was insanely beautiful from that angle, as he was from any other, looking down at Harry with fire on his eyes. Harry sucked on his thumb, tied his hair with the hair tie that was always around his wrist and took him the mouth again. Louis moaned so loudly there was a chance that the people downstairs, the ones preparing the fancy party that would be thrown later that evening, could hear him.

“Well, I think I’m going to need a second shower,” he said after coming, half in Harry’s mouth, half on himself, trying hard to catch his breath.

“I missed you too,” Harry replied with a bright smile.

* * *

It was ten in the evening and Harry was surrounded by great number of people. He had already shook hands with at least twenty celebrities, forty athletes from different sports and met a number of others who introduced themselves as “a friend of Louis”, which he was pretty sure to be an overstatement on most of their parts. He now found himself in a circle with Ryan and his wife, Joshua, Paolo and Liam. He took a sip of his second glass of margarita.

Since Louis was back to his hard training, Ryan banned any type of alcohol consumption. After much negotiation, the trainer made an exception for the party and allowed Louis to have two doses of the alcoholic beverage of his choice. After a careful examination of what the bar offered, they decided that tequila would offer the best effect for the shortest amount.

“You can get the nice sweet part,” Louis had suggested, pointing at the margarita picture on the menu. “And I can have the horrible burning one.”

One-shot-of-tequila Louis was everywhere, talking to people, laughing with handsome men, taking selfies and group pictures. He must have had some level of trust for those people to allow them to get into the party with their phones in the first place. Harry dried his sweaty hands on his jeans and tried to relax.

His resolution died out when he saw Finn Marsh cross the front door, looking smarter than ever. Marsh typed something on his mobile, and soon Louis was making way through the crowd and waving at him. They greeted each other with a quick hug, talking for some minutes before taking a succession of selfies in the hall, the obvious choice since it was the place with the best lightning.

Harry bit his straw and tried to look away.

Joshua eventually elbowed him gently and asked, “Is everything okay?”

Harry mindlessly nodded, still following the scene with his eyes. After six minutes, Louis led the man inside the crowd to a group of people who were cheerfully chatting and greeted Marsh with much enthusiasm. Just like that, Louis vanished and seemed to head elsewhere. Harry would have left out a relieved sigh if he were that petty, which he wasn’t, of course. He bit his straw harder.

At eleven fifty-two, Louis put a hand on Harry’s lower back and whispered, “I think I’ve talked to at least eight-seven per cent of the people, do you think that is enough?”

“I like the way you go around talking to people, it makes you seem... powerful.”

Louis laughed and gave a quick kiss on his cheek. Harry’s heart stopped for a second – they hadn’t discussed the limitations on the public affection they could display, but Louis seemed completely at ease with it. Nobody in their circle seemed to flinch. Had Louis told them? Did Liam know? Harry had the impression that Liam would freak a bit if he knew. Or was it just common for Louis to kiss his friends on the cheek?

“Maybe we can co-host the next one and you can do the socializing,” Louis said, and took Harry by the hand. “Let’s get something to drink? It’s almost midnight.”

They excused themselves and Louis led him through the crowd. He took his second tequila shot while Harry was served his fourth margarita. At eleven fifty-nine, the DJ stopped playing, and soon they were counting down the seconds until the New Year.

At midnight, Louis kissed him on the mouth in the middle of the room full of people.

Harry had the distinct feeling that time was frozen. People were cheering and hugging and kissing around him, but in his mind it was all Louis. They hugged each other tightly, so close that he could smell Louis’ perfume mixed with sweat, and Harry couldn’t help but whisper _I love you_ in his ear.

“Love you too,” Louis whispered back, and kissed him again.

There couldn’t possibly be a better way to start a new year.

Harry changed from margarita to water after his fifth glass, thinking about the still-packed handcuffs that he fully intended to use that day. By the end of the party, it felt that he, too, had talked to at least eighty-seven per cent of the people there, having his ego constantly stroked with complements about his hair, his outfit choice and how nice he was. Harry liked feeling like he fitted in, especially at that social circle formed by well-known people.

As the morning approached, the huge house started emptying either by people going back to the city, or going up to their guest bedrooms. Louis stayed until there was only him, Harry and Liam left.

“God, I can’t feel my feet. Or I can feel them too much, I’m not sure,” Liam cried out, stretching his arms above his head. The people from the organization were already starting to clean up. What a great thing to be rich, Harry thought.

“What did you think of it, Liam?” Louis asked in the middle of a yawn, closing the gap between him and Harry by putting his arm around Harry’s waist. Liam lingered his eyes on their close bodies for a bit too long – so Louis had unmistakably told him. Harry was dying to know what had been his reaction, and he tried not to feel self-conscious.

“Well, people chose to be here instead when they could be at plenty of other parties, so I think it’s safe to assume it was a success,” was his analysis. “We’re so close to April now, and people are still sticking around. That’s definitely a good sign.”

“How about you, Harold, how did you like it?”

“The margaritas were really great.”

Louis giggled, kissing his cheek again. Liam fiddled with his shirt for a moment and looked a bit uncomfortable when he said, “We also should try discussing, erm, this, as soon as possible.”

“What’s this, Leeyum?” Louis feigned ignorance.

“You know what.”

“I’m not quite sure,” Harry butted in, catching on very quickly that torturing Liam was something Louis did for fun.

“This thing with, I mean, I think it’s great if you’re happy, but– you’re involvement with Harry. We need to discuss it.”

“Do I need to be present? It’d be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it?” Harry happily contributed for the discussion.

Liam growled. “You’re making it hard for me to be supportive,” he said to Louis.

Louis laughed a little and said, “We can discuss anything you want after we get to bed, I think I’ve been up for thirty-six hours.”

The handcuffs would have to be put on hold, then.  


	11. Chapter 11

It was their first editorial meeting of the year, and Harry was sleepy. Callahan was passionately giving a presentation about the results achieved the year before. There had been a modest rise in subscriptions and a much more substantial one in website traffic, linked to their stronger presence in social media and more constant posting of articles. “But more than these cold hard numbers,” Callahan continued, and one could say he was holding back tears. “I can say with all certainty that we had a great increase in the quality of the work we produce thanks to your dedication. I’m proud of all of you.”   

“Come on boss, don’t make us cry.”

“It’s true, Niall. This is the team I envisioned when I started the Overview.”

“We all know we got so good because I joined you,” said Jesy, who was completing her first year at the magazine, and everybody laughed. Perrie threw a paper ball at her, and the whole thing made Harry wake up a little bit.

“We’re on the right track, folks, no doubt about that,” Callahan continued, raising a hand like a teacher asking their students to be silent. “And this year will bring us many challenges. In January, we are going to focus on the youth. I’m starting to think that your generation may be the only one with a bit of good sense in their heads. I encourage you to share any suggestions you have for articles, and also how to best approach this demographic. What kind of social media are kids using these days?”

“We already have accounts on all the relevant ones,” Perrie replied. “But I think we’re not managing them very efficiently with everyone having access to it and posting occasionally. I think it’s time to choose or hire someone specifically to be in charge of that.”

Everybody nodded and Callahan listened carefully, trying hard not to look so puzzled.

“I think it’d be more productive to get someone outside the magazine, if we have the means to do it,” Niall suggested. “This way, we can focus only on researching and producing.”

“And we could still keep covering events through social media when it’s necessary, but there would be that main person. I think that would be a good system,” said Jesy.

“Do you know anybody who does that kind of work?” Callahan asked, and they got quiet for a minute trying to think of people they could recommend.

“There’s an acquaintance of mine who has done some freelance work here before, but I don’t know if it would be a good idea,” Leigh-Anne said after some consideration, biting her lip. “He’s good at it, though.”

Callahan narrowed his eyes, confused as to why she was being hesitant. “What’s his name?”

“Erm, Alain. Remember when he helped us with some last-minute design?”

Oh, Harry was definitely awake now. He hadn’t heard Alain’s name in so long it made his stomach turn a bit. Four pairs of eyes stared at him, Leigh-Anne lowered her head, feeling a bit ashamed, and Callahan kept being confused.

“Alain, Alain… ah, that French fella who helped us with the Chernobyl article, right? He’s good. I must still have his e-mail somewhere.”

“This would be a remote position, right? He’s in no way required to _ever_ come here, is he?” Harry asked before he could hold it back.

“Is there something here that I need to know?” Callahan asked, looking at all of them with suspicion.

“Nope. I just think we’re such a good team now, and we don’t have any physical space for other people anymore,” Harry retorted, trying not to sound like he was dying on the inside. Leigh-Anne mouthed a _sorry!_ across the table. He didn’t blame her for recommending Alain – business was business –, but would rather take his own eyes off than having to see the man with any regularity.

“Oh, I don’t even know if he’s still living in London,” Leigh-Anne interjected.

“I’ll contact him and see how it goes. Any other ideas?”

They threw in some more ideas and the meeting was over twenty minutes after the Alain bombshell. Harry was itching to check his mobile and see if there were any texts from Louis (there weren’t, so he sent him a gif of a cat licking a puppy’s nose saying, _good morning sunshine xxx_ ), but he had got one from Gemma letting him know she would arrive in London the next day and stay throughout the weekend.

_do you need a place to crash, sis?_ he readily offered.

_i’m staying at friend’s, but i definitely want to visit olivia x_

_i miss you too, dumbass_

They set up a dinner on Friday, after Harry’s yoga class, and possibly a night out. His legs were still kind of sore from the New Year’s party, but what was the point in being young if not living your youth fully and pushing your body behind its limits?

He also had a notification from Leigh-Anne saying once more she was sorry, to which he replied _don’t worry baby, it’d be foolish of me to take it personally x_. It could be related to Alain’s sudden reappearance, even if (and hopefully only) by name, but before he could panic about it, he sent Louis a second text asking if he was up to something on Friday night.

* * *

“Ooh, this is fucking beautiful.”

Gemma hummed in agreement as they looked to a painting of a young lady in the woods, surrounded by wolves. She was in town filming a group of young artists who were blowing over the internet with different styles of paintings. “She’s so bloody talented and barely nineteen, don’t you hate these people. We’re actually thinking of doing a small documentary about the group… maybe you could give me some hints, working with a big star and all.”

“I’d have to check if I have any openings in my schedule, though,” Harry replied, making his best impression of a pretentious bastard. Gemma slapped his arm and he cleared his throat. “Erm, speaking about documentaries, there’s something I want to tell you.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You know Louis?”

Gemma looked at him as if he were stupid.

“The lad you always talk endless hours about, also boxing prodigy and specialist in having his face everyfuckingwhere Louis? Is that the one?”

Maybe he was a bit stupid, but that was what being nervous did to him.

“That one.”

“Yeah, Harry. I know Louis.”

“We’re dating.”

She showed no reaction for a few seconds, just intensely staring at him, before saying, “You’re _shitting_ me.”

“Since November or so.”

“Fuck, Harry. Why didn’t you tell me before?” she asked, and continued before he could say anything, “Wait–” she gave him an accusatory look. “Was he the one who you were talking to over Christmas?”

Harry nodded.

“I can’t believe you did something more than pinning for him.”

“Well, actually he was the one who started it.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very much,” he said in all honesty, and Gemma opened the brightest smile, crossing over the table to try and pinch his cheeks. It was his turn to slap her hand away. “Anyway, I invited him to come over tomorrow.”

“You invited Louis Tomlinson to hang with us?”

“I invited my _boyfriend_ Louis Tomlinson to hang with us.”

“Now you’re just being cocky,” Gemma retorted, throwing a napkin ball at him.

“I have a feeling you’re going to get along just fine.”

Gemma smirked at him and finished up her coffee, while Harry happily munched a piece of red velvet cake. It was only when they were heading out of the coffee shop that she seemed to remember an important part of the story, asking where Finn Marsh fitted in all of that, which gave Harry another opportunity to dramatically tell about the fake romance Louis was involved in and how he came to tell Harry about it.

In twenty hours, he found himself sitting on his sofa with Gemma by his side and Louis in front of him. They were excitedly talking about some toy that only people born in the early 1990’s seemed to remember, and Harry was sipping on his drink. They interacted like old friends, making jokes Harry didn’t really get, but was happy to hear anyway because that meant Gemma liked Louis.

Gemma never liked any of his boyfriends, not even Ethan who was an overall sweet person. In Ethan’s defense, his sister seemed not to like plenty of people, so it wasn’t that surprising and not really the guy’s fault. While Harry was not seeking for anybody’s approval, it was very nice to have it.

“I always was Posh Spice. Harry here would fight me sometimes because of it, but I ended up getting her parts every time.”

“And who did he end up with?”

“Baby Spice, of course.”

“I was usually Sporty Spice, but I truly wanted to be Ginger,” Louis shook his head, as if lamenting his wasted opportunities.

“Ahh, I miss the days of shamelessly performing Spice Girls.”

“I’m trying to convince Harry to start a band of his own, you know.”

“Our strong suit will be dancing,” Harry butted in.

“Who else is in this band?”

“Harold,” Louis started to count, using Harry’s fingers to do so. Harry beamed at his hand like a child. “Niall, because every band needs the cute Irish lad that can play the guitar. And Liam, who works with me. He can do some lame rapping and good singing.”

“That’s settled then, we have a trio ready to go,” Gemma decided, sounding like their manager.

Harry put up a fourth finger on his own. “And with you, we make a four-piece.”

“What, me? I can’t sing for shit,” Louis replied, trying to put his finger down.

“Bullocks! I hear you sing in the shower all the time, you have a beautiful voice,” Harry retorted, proud of himself when he noticed that Louis brushed a bit.

“I need at least two shots of tequila to get any singing going,” the boxer said, and before they could continue arguing with flattery, Gemma interrupted them. 

“Should we head to the club?” she asked, squinting to adapt her vision to the sudden light coming out of the mobile screen. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Sure thing, I’ve got a booth set up in the Black Sheep,” Louis told them, getting up and offering his hand for Harry to do the same.

“The Black Sheep?” Gemma sounded impressed, as was Harry – he had no idea Louis was planning to take them to the Black Sheep, a sort of exclusive club frequented by a range of celebrities. He had seen at least three sets of paparazzi pictures of Louis leaving the club with Marsh during the course of their arrangement, but Harry had never been there himself. “That’s quite a… difficult place to get.”

“Well sis, you’re lucky that your brother is a connected man,” Harry replied nonchalantly, gulping down the rest of his drink. Gemma rolled her eyes and Louis laughed before saying, “Just let me go to the loo first, and then we can get going.”

_I love him_ , Gemma mouthed very clearly just as Louis got into the toilet, making a heart sign with her hands for good measure.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Harry took Gemma to the bus station, where she spent half an hour telling him how nice Louis was and how she couldn’t wait until he brought Louis home. It was silly of him, but the idea of introducing Louis to his mum made Harry’s stomach turn. She had never met any of his boyfriends – except for Ethan, who had then been introduced as a _friend from uni_ because he didn’t want Harry to tell the truth.

When the bus arrived, they hugged tight with a promise of seeing each other soon.

Then he headed home, the sulkiness already taking over him, mostly because plenty of work was waiting to be done. He needed to do some research for an upcoming article, besides being in charge of updating their website if any big news broke – which meant checking the biggest news agencies every three minutes hoping that no earthquakes had happened, no shots had been fired and no famous person had died, for the sake of other people and his own.

Louis told him he would be busy all day training, but could come over later if Harry was free. He wouldn’t be, but figured he could manage dealing with breaking news and Louis at the same time, at least if he was finished with his other responsibilities. So he blocked all social media from his phone and laptop, and obsessively refreshed the Reuters website throughout the day.

The only major happening of the day was a train collision in Spain, where there had been no fatal victims. Harry wrote a quick note about it, opened the Google Drive file with information about train wrecks (these kind of thematic files, which saved them loads of time and made their work much more efficient, had been Jade’s idea, and Harry loved her for it) and added information about safety regulations in Spain, comparing then to the ones in England.

The whole process took him around fifteen minutes. He congratulated himself on being efficient and focused, something that Callahan constantly demanded from him. He had just posted the article when his doorbell buzzed.

“It’s me, you’re not picking up your phone!” Louis screamed from the other side.

“Sorry, just hang on a second!”

When he opened the door, Louis was shining. There was no other word for it – his eyes were glowing, his skin looked moisturized even though it was horribly cold, his hair was impeccable. He kissed Harry with more intensity than necessary to say hello, and waved a bottle of champagne in front of him.

“What’s the occasion?” Harry asked, with a smile on his lips and a raised eyebrow. “I thought you were off alcohol until your comeback?”

Louis stared at him, with the bottle midair. “Haven’t you seen it?”

“I… haven’t? Except if _it_ was on Reuters, I’ve been offline all day.”

His lack of awareness of whatever was happening seemed to make Louis even happier. He stroked Olivia’s head on his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed two glasses and poured them some champagne. Then he sat on the sofa, with his phone on his lap and holding the glass of champagne.

“Harry. Harold. My little pumpkin. Come sit here,” he patted the seat next to him. Harry thought that for someone who was forbidden from drinking and couldn’t take drugs, he seemed quite in an altered state.

Harry sat by his side, making their knees touch. Louis searched for the Juicy News website on his mobile, and clicked on an article that said, **NO ROOM FOR LOVE: British actor Finn Marsh and boxer star Louis “The Tommo” Tomlinson have split!**

Harry stared at the screen for some time.

Then he blinked many, many times, not because he had any difficult in reading what was there, but because he couldn’t really process it. The article had a selfie of Louis and Marsh, one that they took during the New Year’s party a few days ago, with a big line dividing them. It said that Louis’ and Marsh’s representatives had confirmed their split, citing busy schedules, and that they had parted ways amicably. It ended with a note saying that Marsh’s next movie, the action flick _IN A BLINK OF AN EYE_ , would hold a premiere in London next Wednesday.

His heart pounded loudly, while he reread the article three more times, including some comments lamenting the end of Larsh. To his concern, he felt like throwing a fucking party.  

“Is this… for real? Like… forever?” he asked, afraid of getting too hopeful.

Louis nodded.

“How about the premiere? Weren’t you supposed to go with him? And your evaluation? And Liam and your team?”

Louis just smiled and seemed relaxed in a way that Harry had never seen him before. His blue eyes crinkled and sparkled, and he kissed Harry again and again and again until he stopped kissing him to say, “I talked to Liam, and Finn, and every person there was to talk, and we’re all tired of it. We worked with a monthly contract and when the most recent one expired at New Year’s Eve, we didn’t really renew it. Finn’s getting movie promo out of the _break up_ ,” he did big air quotes at that point, “and I can… be with you.”

“I feel like updating our website because this is definitely breaking news material,” Harry tried to sound nonchalant, even though a big part of him had a great urge to cry.

“Are you happy?”

“I’m fucking happy, yes.”

“I want you to understand that Finn isn’t a bad fella, sometimes we’ve just got to do what we’ve got to do,” Louis said, sounding a bit ashamed.

“It is what it is,” Harry replied absent-minded, tracing Louis’ tattoos over the white t-shirt with his fingers.

Louis sighed.

“I hate it that people care, but this arrangement actually made me look better on the public’s eyes, and I met a lot of important people through him.”

“I love you, and I’m just happy it’s over. You don’t need to explain yourself.”

“I feel like I do have to, though. I know how much you hated it.”

Harry shook his head, cupping Louis’ face in his hands. The boxer lowered his head until their noses were touching and they stayed like this for a few seconds, breathing each other in, with their eyes closed and pretending they could suspend time in the revolving world around them.

But they couldn’t, not really. “Can you just check the Reuters website for me very quickly?” Harry whispered against Louis lips.

“You make it sound so sexy,” Louis replied with a grin, typing into his mobile. “World peace has been reached, we don’t need to worry about anything ever again,” was his journalistic report.

“Brilliant, now I’m out of a job and I can just lay here forever.”

“I’m ready to make a toast, actually,” Louis said, raising the glass of champagne. Harry took his own from the floor and they drank the content with a gulp, filling up the glasses again.

Harry put the bottle by their feet and sat on Louis’ lap, with a leg on each side of his body, tasting the champagne out of his lips.

“What happens now?” he asked, not wanting to let Louis go, breathing against his cheek.

“What do you want to happen?”

“You said you could _be_ with me now, I think that would be… fantastic.”

“Yeah?” Louis asked, biting his lip very gently. “I have to tell you though, Harold, sometimes it can be… a lot. There are some things I can do to protect you, but people can be very horrible when they want to. You wouldn’t imagine how many people have enough time to invest to try making your life miserable.”

“How do you mean it?”

“With stalking you on social media, leaving nasty comments and such.”

Harry laughed a bit, kissing Louis again just because he could.

“You’re such a pop star.”

“It’s not my fault that everybody wants a piece of me, Harold.”

“As long as we don’t have to set pap pictures in grocery stores, I think I’m okay.”

“I’m sure these days are over. But we would probably… you know,” Louis said while Harry bended over in a way which was only possible because of his yoga practice, filling both their glasses with more champagne. “Go places together, and have our picture taken sometimes, it’s just the way it works.”

“That’s kind of hot, actually,” Harry pondered, sipping on his drink.

“Yeah? How so?” Louis asked, tangling his fingers on Harry’s hair.

“To be with you. Out. Like, you know, a that’s-my-man-and-I’m-not-afraid-of-the-world-knowing-it feeling.”

“I’m bloody flattered to be your man.”

Harry really, really hoped that nothing out of the ordinary happened in the world, because he was getting tipsy and hard and having Louis bite his ear wasn’t helping him focus on much else.

“Likewise,” he replied, finishing his drink and putting his glass on the floor once again, along with Louis’. His hands ran down Louis torso and pulled up his t-shirt, leaving it on the armrest. He traced his chest tattoo once again – _it is what it is_ , and only now, after all those months of knowing Louis, was Harry starting to really understand how deep the message behind those words was.

Louis had been through so much. No wonder why naming _Never not a fighter_ a documentary about him was such a perfect pick. And Louis accepted things as they were, but that didn’t mean he stopped fighting for what he wanted or for the people that were important to him. His professional life was a physical translation of his personality, strong in every sense of the word, and Harry felt happy and humbled for Louis having decided to share his life with him.  

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered against Louis lips. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispered against Louis’ ear.

Louis replied by taking Harry’s t-shirt off and making him get up so they could go to the bedroom. Harry laid on his back, trying to catch his breath while Louis kissed down his torso, tracing the butterfly tattoo with his tongue, pulling down his trousers in a swift move. He touched Harry’s waist, quietly asking him to turn around, and Harry laid on his stomach while Louis played with the waistband of his pants.

A chill went down his spine when Louis started licking his arse, and he moaned loudly against his pillow, feeling the anticipation of the entire day dissolve. He could barely hear what Louis was saying when he stopped eating Harry out, half lost in a state of haze, but noticed that Louis reached for his nightstand to get the lube and a condom.

“Don’t stop touching me,” he said against the pillow, too far gone to care if he sounded desperate, arching his back so he could lean into Louis’ body.

“I don’t think I could ever do that,” Louis replied, and was true to his words as he started opening Harry up.

“Just let me…” he switched his position, laying on his back once again, feeling his breath being taken away by only looking at Louis, by how insanely beautiful he looked that up-close. He cupped the man’s face on his hands, pulling him in, murmuring _I love you_ and _you’re like a dream_ when Louis started thrusting against him. Louis’ eyes shone even with the dim light, with some drops of sweat on his forehead and firm hands holding Harry’s waist.

If the sun could take a physical human form, it would be Louis. And Harry felt so lucky that Louis had chosen him, had chosen them, in the infinite myriad of possibilities and universes – they had beaten the odds of finding each other, and Harry didn’t plan to let Louis go any time soon.

* * *

The last time Harry had been to court was during his internship at the Manchester Daily News, when he was sent to cover the trial of a young lady accused of killing her older sister because she didn’t want to share their parents’ inheritance. There was something about a court that he deeply despised – he wasn’t show if the obsession with order, the unfairness of how law was applied or the way people didn’t even try to hide their arrogance and counterproductive competitiveness. To think that could have been his daily routine baffled him.  

The bottom line was, Harry hated courts. He would be rather washing dishes in a big Chinese restaurant during a busy Saturday night than sitting in a court room taking notes about other people’s disgraces.

This time, however, he wasn’t taking any notes. He wasn’t there to cover a grand jury case, or give the latest scoop on a trial, but to support his boyfriend. He didn’t even get permission to enter the actual court room, only sitting outside getting progressively anxious about what could be happening inside.

Louis had very nervously asked if Harry could follow him to court. He could ask Liam and Malik to be there, of course, but they would probably find it weird to hold Louis’ hand and whisper in his ear that everything would be okay, so Harry would need to do the job. Which he readily agreed to, even with the nervous pinch in his stomach, eager to support Louis in every way he could.

“Is it the trial already?”

“No, not yet, it’s the last hearing before it,” Louis bit his lip. “But if things go as planned we could... we might as well end it all tomorrow. It's everything Mita and Zayn want, attracting the least amount of publicity possible to this mess.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  

“I think Mita would strangle me if she found out I said this much too you.”

“But I want to know what your strategy is! Are you going to drag Cooke?”

Louis laughed and rubbed his nose against Harry’s. “You’re watching too many law shows, Harold. I’d love to drag him, but having to do it in court through my solicitor in all that fancy _here’s-the-evidence-your-honor_ way really kills the mood. I’m counting on a certain publication that could do just that, though,” he added.

Harry had no doubt in his mind that Cooke would get what was stored for him, but still couldn’t stop nervously flinching on the bench. He watched as people came and went in the busy hall, with their rhythmic heels clanking along the way. He had bought his laptop with him to try doing some work, but it was impossible to pay attention to anything with his mind was wondering for what was happening behind closed doors.

Two hours and seven minutes later, the door to the courtroom opened and he jumped on his seat. Samuel Cooke left the room first, wearing a three-piece-black suit and perfectly styled hair; Harry had never seen Cooke in person before, but he really, really wanted to punch him in the face. Cooke was followed by a bald old man who was talking very fast, and another man in his mid-fifties wearing a fur coat. Harry hated all of them, and tried to destroy them with a hard stare as they rushed out of the corridor.

He got up, anxiously waiting side the door hoping to see any sign of Louis. It seemed like ages since they last talked, even if in reality it wasn’t more than a couple of hours ago, when he had kissed Louis’ cheeks repeatedly saying that everything was going to be alright. His pressed his phone so hard it could pop open any minute.

Finally, he saw the tip of Palla’s purple shoe sticking out the courtroom, soon followed by rest of her, who had a protective hand of Louis’ shoulder. Harry wasn’t very sure about what the protocol for the occasion was, as they were still working on how public could they be before going full on public, but couldn’t hold back putting his arms to Louis’ shoulder and pressing his body against the other man.

“How did it go?”

“It was, erm…” Louis started, shifting his weigh from one leg to the other, and glanced at the woman.

“I need to make a call,” Palla excused herself, giving Louis’ shoulder a last squeeze.

“It’s over,” he told Harry in a serious voice, looking at the ground, and Harry felt his heart race. He didn’t ask _why do you mean_ , because he didn’t want to pressure Louis, but by his tone it sure seemed like things hadn’t gone well. “He dropped the lawsuit, or he’s going to drop it now? I’m not sure how these things work.”

“What? Louis, this is great. This is actually very, very great,” he said, hugging Louis. The boxer rested his chin in Harry’s shoulder and Harry could smell the lavender in is hair. “Isn’t it?”

Louis hesitated, squeezing him so tight it hurt a bit, but Harry didn’t let go.

“Of course, it’s just that… You know,” he took a deep breath before trying again. “The stuff that I told you, I needed to share all of that. In front of a balding old man I didn’t know. In front of that lady who types down everything even though I have no idea how she could do that. In front of a camera. Of Cooke. It was harder than I thought it would be. And then to hear Cooke say that I was lying, that he had no idea I had taken any drugs, that he was nothing but supportive of my decision of coming out… I wanted to fucking rip his head with my teeth.

“I thought I was strong enough to do it, but I felt like fucking garbage. I was trembling and holding back tears while that bastard stood still with his head up.”

Harry didn’t know what to say – there was probably nothing he could say that would make Louis feel less shitty at the moment. So he kept hugging him, stroking his hair and feeling him breathe against his neck, which sent thrills through his spine. He loved this man so dearly he couldn’t quite figure out how one person was able to hold so much love.

In a twisted way, it was because of Cooke that he had met Louis in the first place. If Louis hadn’t taken that bloody dose of Nandrolone, their paths might never have crossed. But at that moment, waiting for Louis’ breath come back to a normal pace, feeling his body shake by the pressure and shame and regret he had faced, Harry would have given it all up. He’d rather had never met Louis if it meant the boxer didn’t have to go through those things.

“I love you,” Louis whispered in his ear. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

* * *

At Harry’s place at the end of that long day, drinking beer and sharing a cheap margherita pizza, Louis told him more about the hearing. His team had got hold of proof that Cooke’s unethical practices weren’t directed only towards Louis, even though the boxer was by far the most successful client he had ever had, and therefore possibly the most extreme measures he’d taken.

In an e-mail exchange from 2007 between Cooke and a female swimmer on the rise, his words were on the verge of harassing while he tried to persuade his client to take a sexy photoshoot that she definitely wasn’t keen on. They also got hold on a complaint made another client five years before, in which the footballer claimed that Cooke was stealing his money. Being a very well connected man, Cooke had been able to swipe almost everything under the rug, but Louis’ people weren’t that badly connected themselves, apparently.

These pieces of evidence were exposed to shine doubt on Cooke’s character, but Louis’ testimony was essential to establishing a motive for the breach of their contract. With his actions, Cooke had breached several clauses that prevented personal and professional abuse, but he probably thought that Louis would be too hurt and scared to take any action against him.

At that point, though, Harry was quite sure that Louis wasn’t scared of anything.

“You’re the toughest, bravest man I know,” he told the boxer, cleaning the grease out of his lips with a napkin. Ryan would’ve scolded them for fifty minutes straight if he saw what they were eating, stressing that Louis was only ninety-seven days and four hours from his comeback or something.

“Being with you makes me strong,” Louis retorted, beaming with his usual sun filled smile which made Harry almost sigh with relief. He wasn’t able to deal with sad Louis for too long. “After I told them everything, and that part was a bit cinematographic, Cooke said that I was a liar etcetera, etcetera, and the judge was all, _Mr. Gross Solicitor With No Morals, ask your client to calm down_. They whispered back and forth for some time, and then his solicitor asked for permission to approach the branch, and then it was over. The fella told us that Cooke had decided to drop the lawsuit.”

Harry was mesmerized by Louis’ story, holding a half-forgotten slice of pizza in his hand.

“This is better than the Good Wife, I’m telling you.”

“Depending on the season,” Louis pondered after some consideration.

“Except for the part where you had share excruciating details about your past.”

“So, given the circumstances, we did drag him the best we could.”

“What pisses me off is that he just… kept doing these things. For such a long time, he got away with it. And the evidence was, still is, out there, even if it’s a bit hard to find. You found some, Niall and Jesy are digging for more, so how the fuck did he manage to almost ruin your career?”

Louis stared at him throughout his rant, and Harry didn’t know if the boxer was surprised because of him talking at a much faster pace than usual, or because of him getting so worked up about Cooke. Harry even shocked himself, really, with the words flowing out of his mouth before he could hold them back. He was only realising then what bothered him the most, thinking that it could all have been prevented if somebody had done something before.

“These things cost a lot of money, Harold, not everybody can afford that,” Louis started saying in a loving tone, rubbing Harry’s thighs. “And not everybody is at a point in their career where they can just say _fuck it_ and do the right thing without completely getting bankrupt, or forgotten, or…”

“Yeah, I see now that I sounded–”

Louis interrupted him by putting a finger up in a _let me finish_ sign.

“Besides, powerful people protect powerful people. It’s the main reason why the entire entertainment industry is this fucked up. Some people _did_ decide to take the risks and do something, and what happened to them? Most were completely ostracized. And it’s not only with athletes, it’s the same for musicians and actors and presenters… These folks see you as a sure way to make them money and manipulate the fact that you have a dream, that you want to be someone. It’s absolutely vicious, you see.”

“I’m just… very sorry you had to go through all that. More like angry, actually.”

“I am too, but maybe not completely. At least we got to this point,” Louis gesticulated broadly, “where we can sit here eating pizza and talk about how screwed Cooke is going to be very soon. It would have been perfect if I wasn’t sure that he’s the motherfucker who’s got those pictures with Julio.”

“Fuck, I had almost forgotten that those bloody pictures were still out there.”

“Zayn negotiated with the person that sent them, you know,” Louis told him, trying to sound casual. Harry felt a bit of leftover anger boil inside of him, nauseated with the thought of Louis giving away any of his hard earned money to a disgusting fucker who was blackmailing him. But he held it back – if there was one thing he had learned with Louis, which the man had just reinforced, was that some things couldn’t be changed and the only choice was trying to make the best out of the situation. _“_ It is what it is” wasn’t inked on his skin by chance _._ “But I don’t trust these dirty bastards for a second. I guess we’ll have to take it one day at a time.”

“One day at a time sounds like a great strategy. Especially considering the rock star life you’re leading,” he added, trying to light up the moon. Thankfully Louis complied, smiling and leaning over to kiss him.

“Does that make you a groupie or something?”

“I’ll totally stalk you during tour.”

“I think we can arrange for you to have priority access to my hotel bedrooms.”

“ _Priority_ access?” Harry retorted with a raised eyebrow. “Does that mean other groupies would be attending your room?”

“Fuck, Harold, do you think I’m so unattractive I’d have only one groupie?”

“I’m not sure I like where this is leading,” he replied, failing not to sound grumpy.

“Are you getting jealous of my imaginary groupies?” Louis asked, laughing at him.

“No?”

“Come on, babe,” Louis nested himself between Harry’s legs, slowly getting his t-shirt up. “You know I’d pick you over everyone else.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**** Harry was stressed. He hated being stressed, and had mastered avoiding stressful situations such as press conferences, tight deadlines or  _ I need to talk to you _ messages, but there was no avoiding it that Tuesday. Louis was going through his pre-screening at that exact moment. For him to be able to go back to competitive boxing in April, Louis would have to be cleared in the exams he had to take today, plus go through an interview with two members of the Board of Control.

There was no way he  _ wouldn’t _ be cleared, considering he had basically lived like a monk for the past ten months, but Harry still felt a knot in his gut every time he thought about Louis standing in front of a panel of evil looking people whose job was to judge him.

He was so nervous when he got up that he left home without eating anything, unable to stomach any food before hearing satisfactory news. It turned out that the news were taking longer than his body could hold, and at ten thirty he started to feel faint as his system protested the lack of food.

“Does anyone want something from the cafeteria?” he still found the time to be thoughtful before going downstairs.

“Could you get me some ice tea, love?” Jesy asked, while the others shook their heads. “I think it’s two pounds or something,” she added, stretching her arm to give him the money.

“Sure! I’ll be right back. Don’t destroy anything while I’m away, kids,” he joked weakly, rushing to the lift. 

He got down with his eyes glued to his phone, and finally received a notification from Louis while he was paying for Jesy’s ice tea and his ricotta sandwich.

_ just got out, waiting for their reply x _

Harry thanked the ever friendly cashier as she gave him the bag and change, wishing him a great day.  _ i’m sure everything will be alright pumpkin _ , he typed as he distractedly got back into the lift and stared at the screen for a whole minute before deciding it wasn’t reasonable to expect an answer so soon.

“Salut,” said someone too close to him, interrupting the flow of thoughts.  

The world suddenly seemed in slow motion as Harry looked up from the phone to the very familiar person beside him. His knees weakened when his body realised what his mind already knew – that he managed to get himself in a tiny, closed, with no way out place together with Alain Lefevre. 

That was a horrible day.

“What are you… why are you here?” Harry asked, unable to sum up the strength to be polite.

“I have a meeting with Callahan about the social media position. How are you doing? I was really hoping to find you–”

Of course, the bloody job opening. The job opening to which Alain had been recommended because of such good job he had done the last time for the magazine. The job opening to manage their social media which should be a 100% remote position, and yet there was Alain right next to Harry in the bloody hell of a lift that couldn’t go up fast enough. That job opening.

“Great, you found me. Good luck with Callahan today.”

“How are you doing?” Alain insisted, in that charming tone that Harry learned to hate deeply. The Frenchman was leaning way too much in his direction for Harry’s taste.

“Fine. Really, really great.”

“We should–”

The lift door opened, and Harry got out without even checking first if they were really on the floor or lost in a vortex, calculating how bad it would be if he just ran before Alain could catch him. But he was too slow – the other man got hold of his arm and finished, “We should talk.” 

“We have absolutely nothing to talk about, could you please let go of my arm?”

Alain unwrapped his fingers and put both arms up in a gesture that should be conciliatory, but just managed to make Harry angrier than he already was. That was definitely the worst time for Alain to show up, whatever his reasons were, and Harry would rather commit murder than listen to his bullshit.

“Just say what you want to say and let’s get it done with,” he growled.

“I’m having this one meeting with Callahan, and then even if it goes well, I won’t be working here,” Alain started, at least taking Harry’s rush seriously and talking very fast. “I only wanted to let you know that I’m sorry for those last weeks we were together. I was horrible most of the time. I’m trying my best not to be that kind of man anymore.”

Part of Harry wanted to correct him because, actually, he had been a jerk for the entire period they spent together. But the most part was relieved that Alain was at least acknowledging it, even if he still couldn’t see the full extent of his mess.

“It’s okay. Well, it’s  _ not _ okay, but I’m glad that you said it. I wasn’t at my best when we met either.”

“And if you want to meet again or talk more…” Alain tried, already giving him one of those smiles that would make his knees weaken a year before, but now was completely manageable.

“I really don’t. Go ahead, though, I don’t think you want to be late for your interview,” Harry interrupted, pointing at the magazine’s entrance. Alain looked at him a minute more before deciding it wasn’t worth the insistence, and entered the newsroom. 

Harry waited a bit, and then opened the door again. 

“I thought you had been kidnapped,” Jesy complaied as he handed her the iced tea.

“There was a queue,” Harry lied, sitting by his desk and using five napkins to try preventing a disaster while he ate. 

“Erm, Harry, Alain has a meeting with Finn today and he’s just arrived. You’ve just missed him, actually,” Leigh-Anne said, pointing at Callahan’s office. He could feel Niall watching his reaction with the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Harry retorted, not even feeling guilty for lying. Over text, though, he quickly summarized to Niall what had really taken place. Just as he sent the message to his friend, his phone buzzed again with a new message from Louis, this time much more conclusive, 

_ GUESS WHO’S BACK YEAH THIS BITCH!!!!!! _

Harry opened the hugest smile, noticing how unimportant Alain’s presence was in comparison to everything that was happening. He was happy, Louis would be okay, and he didn’t give much of a shit to anything else at that moment. 

_ I’M SO PROUD OF YOU BOO LOVE YOU!!!! [thousands of blue hearts] _ , he hastily typed back before asking Niall, “Do you want to break some good news?”

* * *

January ended with Harry covering the Chinese New Year’s celebration in London, thanking the forces above for being able to write about nice things. He honestly didn’t know how he would manage if he was in charge of politics, for example – Leigh-Anne’s and Perrie’s faces, for example, were in a perpetual state of distress since the 20th. 

But they were all working harder than ever, drawing strategies for the magazine for that year, trying to better set their editorial tone and constantly debating about what kind of news should be reported, and in what way. Harry started searching about different graduate programs set to start next autumn, confident that he was ready to take his career to a new level. 

His contract with Louis was over. The documentary would finish recording in a week, and then enter the post-production stage. The release date was set for April 30th and it gave Harry loads of feelings – it had been such a crazy journey to work on it, not only because of his personal involvement with Louis, but also because of how much he had learned working on a documentary, being a very different type of work from what he did at the Overview.

Their March edition was outlined to contain a series of articles about homophobia and sexism in sports, which they were all contributing for. Louis’ team had agreed on an interview for the edition, and when Callahan suggested that Harry should carry it, considering his previous work with the boxer, he decided it was time to have a very awkward conversation with his boss.

Trying to ignore the nervous knot in his stomach, as he sat in front of an increasingly impatient Callahan, Harry considered the least bad way to tell he was dating Louis. 

“I’m dating Louis,” he decided on saying, without any previous information. 

Callahan chocked on his coffee and made a small mess on his desk. 

“You’re  _ what _ .”

“Dating Louis Tomlinson,” he repeated, feeling his face get hot and hating every decision he had ever made in his life. “So that’s why I don’t think it’s appropriate to–”

“When… the fuck were you… planning to tell me that?” Callahan interrupted him. 

Harry thought about his options for a moment. From the redness in Callahan’s face, he wasn’t very happy with the news, or at least with the lack of being informed about it earlier. Since Harry appreciated his job very much, he was as soft as he could.

“It just… happened very fast. We haven’t been together for that long,” Harry tried to explain, feeling shittier with each word. Three months were definitely enough time to inform his boss that he was dating the guy he was supposed to be getting unbiased information about. 

“I don’t know what to do with this information,” the other man said, plainly. 

“Niall could do the interview,” Harry suggested, even though he knew that’s not what Callahan meant. “And any future interview with Louis, he’s totally the best qualified person for the job.”

Callahan didn’t say anything for a long time, stroking his chin. 

“You know that not the point, Styles,” he finally said, sounding too close to a scolding father. “I have no business with your personal life, but when it can jeopardize  _ my  _ business, I’d like to be well informed. Our interview will sure look biased when people make the connection between both of you. We won’t do it.”

Harry wanted to argue that it would be such an important interview for the edition, but decided it wasn’t a good time to make his point. He would try again after Callahan had better digested the news, and to help him process, he vanished from sight and was out of the newsroom doing field work for the rest of the day. 

There was still room for one more awkward conversation that same week, though, this time taking place a few days later at the library of the posh Chelsea house. Louis, Liam, Malik and himself sat down and discussed the best strategies for announcing Louis’ new relationship in the media. 

From a professional point of view, it was a very interesting meeting. Malik showed them some metric for the old and dark days of Larsh, such as how much people were talking about them and what impact it had in Louis’ social media following. Harry’s reach would be considerably lower, since he wasn’t a well-known celebrity with a new movie coming out. He was nothing but a journalist with an aesthetic instagram account (that were Malik’s exact words when describing him, and it made him feel better that Louis was sure to say that Harry was much more than that. Malik gave them a dismissive hand). 

“This has good sides as well, you don’t need to be offended,” Malik said, starting to explain what these sides were until Louis got impatient and interrupted him.

“Zayn, I made you one question yesterday, which you didn’t answer, and then you set up a full meeting and still don’t address to it. I just wanted to know how public I could be with Harry at the wedding we’re attending, from pretending we don’t know other to stripping him down in the dance floor.”

“I really don’t think you should do that,” Harry pleaded.

“Come on, we’ll be drunk.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking, it messes up your body,” Liam alerted.

“Great to know I’m surrounded by nannies,” Louis interrupted all of them. “Zayn?”

“I think it’s a great opportunity to generate some buzz,” the publicist pondered. “I’d say just act naturally and let people draw their own conclusions. If they want to take pictures of you, that’s okay. Let the posts on social media start organically.”

“See? That wasn’t hard.”

“But if anybody asks you directly, dodge the topic. Depending on how it goes, I could emit an official statement the next day or wait a bit more.”

“It’s so bloody weird to emit an  _ official statement _ because you started dating someone,” Harry butted in. 

“Welcome to media hell, Harold,” Louis replied, stroking his cheek.

“Speaking of which,” Malik intervened. “I’d strongly recommend that you make a careful search through your social media, Styles. Some people can get… very obsessive over stuff like that, so if you’ve posted anything you don’t want people finding out, or anything that could harm Louis’ image, take it down. I’ll, of course, be conducting a similar swipe myself.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“See what I mean? You bunch are nothing more than fancy stalkers,” said Louis, referring to what he had once told Harry regarding journalists, just when their work together started.

“Says the guy who punches people for a living,” retorted Malik, in a fed up but affectionate tone. After months of knowing both men, Harry still couldn’t quite figure out what was the deal between Louis and Malik. Whatever it was, as weird as it looked to Harry, it seemed to work for them. “Anyway, Styles, I can email you some recommendations, but overall life goes on as usual. You just need to be a bit more careful about the things you say and how you say them. We can even set up some media training classes if it comes to that.”

“Ooh, those are fun,” Liam added sincerely, while Louis rolled his eyes so hard Harry was afraid they’d get stuck at the back of his brain. 

“It’ll give the media something to talk about,” Malik continued in his strategist voice. “Right as they’re starting to speculate about Louis’ comeback match.”

February started full of anticipation, as well with Harry’s birthday. In the morning of his 23rd birthday, he received a basket that contained a lot of food, three bottles of champagne and a small box. Harry blushed hard when he opened it, examining the lingerie he had got as a gift and wondering if he should try it on before leaving to work, even though he was running late.

“Well, fuck it,” he murmured to himself as he took his clothes off. 

The corset looked so expensive he was terrified of messing it. It took him almost ten minutes to put it on, but the result was totally worth. He snapped a full body picture and sent it to Louis with the message,  _ later tonight? _

_ i’d fucking teleport there at this minute if i could _ , was Louis very fast reply.

_ i’m so horny now i can’t concentrate  _

_ look what you do to me _

_ i almost regret my gift choices as i’m not there to enjoy it _

Feeling proud of himself, Harry put on his work outfit once more and replied Louis with nothing more than three cocky kissing emojis. In no time Louis would be very pleased with the present he had chosen.

A day before Maya’s wedding, they left London in Louis’ Bugatti and headed to Holmes Chapel before going to Manchester. Harry tried to ignore the nervous knot in his stomach at the anticipation of his mum meeting his boyfriend, focusing instead on how hot Louis looked driving that more-expensive-than-a-full-undergraduate-tuition car while wearing a Ray-ban.

“You know what I don’t get,” Harry started, stroking Louis’ thigh, “is how you can have such a fancy taste in cars, but live in an apartment smaller than mine.”

“Hey, what do you have against my place?”

“I love it! It’s just a bit… packed?”

“I don’t even spend that much time there, though. And the Chelsea house makes me feel weird.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief.

“The Chelsea house is yours?!”

“Of course, Harold, who else would it be? Did you think we were breaking in this whole time to film?”

“I thought it belonged to… I don’t know, somebody that you were friendly with? Good lord, you’re rich as fuck.”

“That’s why I’m making you my trophy wife,” Louis retorted, laughing.

“From groupie to trophy wife. I’ve finally made it!”

Their soundtrack for the trip ranged from N’Sync to Fleetwood Mac to N.W.A., each getting their own performance, and the three hours seemed to fly by before Harry had time to panic. When Louis parked in front of his mother’s house, he was totally unprepared and couldn’t bring himself to open the car door. 

“Are you okay? You look a bit… pale?”

Harry didn’t know how to put it into words. They hadn’t had much of the ex-boyfriends talk, besides the obvious one about Julio Calderas, so Louis didn’t know that the last and so far only boyfriend he introduced to his mum was Ethan, when Harry was still in college, nor how much his mum liked Ethan and how messily painful the breakup had been for a myriad of different reasons.

Even though Harry knew the situation was miles different now, and that his mum would absolutely love Louis, and that the bond they had with each other was much stronger than anything he had felt before, he was still irrationally nervous.

Louis seemed to sense all of this somehow, as he squeezed Harry’s hand in a supportive gesture.

“I can’t tell you right now why this is such a big deal for me,” Harry justified, “but it is, and I’m very happy that you’re the one who’s sitting in the car with me right now.”

“Come on, babe, you know I’m a delight. All mums in existence love me,” Louis joked a bit, kissing his cheek and stroking his hair. Harry leaned into his touch like a kitten, and after a few minutes he was ready to get out of the car and ring the doorbell. 

* * *

Maya and Anne looked absolutely gorgeous. The whole wedding was impeccably beautiful, but the brides surely stood out, both in different white dresses and smiling at each other like nobody else existed in the world. Harry lost count on how many times he cried during the ceremony, keeping track until the third, when the celebrant said, “so when two souls are meant to find each other, life finds a way of bringing them together.”

(The moment was ruined, though, by Louis murmuring into his ear, “Isn’t that line from Jurassic Park?”) 

Harry hugged Maya for about ten minutes after the ceremony was over, repeating again and again that he loved her, that he was proud of her, that Anne was a very lucky woman for having Maya as her wife.  “I know there are thousands people to greet you, but I can’t let you go when you look this stunning,” he murmured on her ear when they finally broke apart, both with tears in their eyes. 

“And you must be Louis,” she said with a huge smile, hugging the boxer as well. “It’s great to meet you.”

“Likewise. Congratulations on your wedding, it looks fantastic.”

“Thank you, love! The music will start soon, and thankfully there are already glasses of champagne floating around.”

“Oh, that  _ is _ great, but I’m laying off on the drinks for now, with training and all that,” Louis explained, and Harry looked at him with surprise.

“Really? I thought you were opening an exception for today.”

“Ryan scolded me saying it’s not an exception if you do it every other week,” Louis shrugged. “Plus you can get shitfaced without worries because I’ll be here to take care of you.”

They greeted Anne as well, and then were ready to enjoying the party. They were put on a table with some other friends of Maya that Harry didn’t know, all of room were very bad at hiding their excitement for having Louis “The Tommo” Tomlinson share a table with them. Louis didn’t deny any selfie requests, nor hold back from holding Harry’s hand, kissing his cheek or dancing in the middle of the dance floor for everybody to see. 

It sent him a shiver through the spine to be with Louis this publicly, without having to hold back. 

An hour after the party started, Harry confined to Louis that he had composed the brides a song and had to figure out with the band when he could butt in their presentation to play it. That happened right after Anne’s and Maya’s speeches, where they tenderly shared memories of each other. Harry gulped down the glass of champagne, gave a peck on Louis’ lips, and took the stage, making Maya go all wide-eyed on him. 

“Erm, hello, good evening to you all,” he said into the microphone, fighting his anxiety the best he could. “I’m Harry Styles and I’m a friend of Maya, whom I love dearly. And I’m so happy for her, because I know how great Anne makes her feel, that I had to write them a song. And since it’s their, it’s their wedding, you know, I got permission from these very nice lads,” he pointed to the people from the band, “to play it to you all.”

A loud cheer came from the crowd, and many phones were taken out to film him. Harry had played in some pubs before, and even in some weddings during his teenage years, but none as crowded as that one. He repeated  _ calm down calm down calm down _ to himself like a mantra, and accepted the guitar handed to him. He tested the strings for a moment, adjusted a few things and cleared his throat before saying, “This song is called Happily.”

His nervousness disappeared after the first verse, when he stopped obsessing in not making mistakes and focused instead in enjoying the song. He played it half looking at Maya, half looking at the guitar, also exchanging a few glances with Louis, who was beaming like a proud parent. He couldn’t bring himself to face the crowd, but by the silence in the room, he reckoned they were at least paying attention. 

He let the knot in his stomach change into an optimistic one, fully immersed on his performance now, aware of how good and right it felt. A part of his brain took a note that he should do something like that again soon. 

When the song was over, the loud cheer baffled him. Maya hugged him so tight his ribs could snap, and Anne was crying more at that moment as much as she did during the ceremony. He almost missed Louis coming to his direction with the biggest smile and proudest look, kissing him in front of everybody without a care in the world. 

“That song is fucking good, Harold! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, love. You’re a huge source of inspiration, I can’t deny it.”

“You’re shaking, though?” Louis asked with a worried expression, wrapping his arms around him. “Everybody loved it, love, there’s no need to worry.”

“Yeah, it was just… a bit nerve wrecking, I guess,” he confessed, nesting his head on the curve of Louis’ neck. “The whole weekend, actually.”

“And still you aced it,” his boyfriend assured, getting on his tiptoes to give a kiss on Harry’s forehead. It was incredibly amazing being able to be openly affectionate with Louis in public – he didn’t even realise how important that was for him until the wedding. His anxiety was giving way to a huge bundle of love.

The band resumed playing with a slow song about people loving each other through the good and the bad. Louis offered his hand, inviting Harry to dance with him, and after it came his fourth glass of champagne, making the rest of the wedding a bit blurry in his mind.

* * *

It was incredibly weird waking up the next morning, banging hangover and all, to see pictures of him and Louis spread through a number of different celebrity outlets. Harry had been so eager to get it over with, to shout to the world that Louis was the man he loved, that he didn’t waste time thinking about how strange it could be to have complete strangers invested in his relationship.

He scrolled down the newsfeed, squinting his eyes and blindly reaching the nightstand in hopes to find painkillers, water or anything that could help me, but his hopes were in vain. Most headline revolved around,  _ “THE TOMMO” PICTURED AT PARTY WITH MYSTERIOUS BRUNETTE _ , which made him laugh despite the headache. They seemed to have about ten different pictures of them, most from them dancing very closely together. Some also got hold of a picture of Harry alone, right at the moment he was taking off his jacket and tie in a sexy movement. 

“Good morning, mysterious brunette,” Louis wished him from the doorframe, just out of the shower and wearing nothing but a wrapped towel around his waist. In regular days, Harry would have gone crazy already. 

“Hi boo,” Harry replied with low energy but a big smile. 

Louis sat on his side of the bed and fumbled in his bag for a moment before handing Harry a bottle of water and a painkiller. “You’ll feel like a human being again in no time,” he promised, putting a stubborn lock of Harry’s hair behind his ear and giving him a peck in the lips. He threw the towel in a chair and put sweatpants on. 

“This is why you’re the best and I love you,” Harry mumbled as he gulped down the medicine. “So I guess people have seen us enough.”

“Oh, they did alright. Zayn’s been feeding me the news for an hour and apparently the whole world is already in love with you, even though they haven’t figured out your name yet. It’ll be loads of fun when they do,” that last part was said full of irony. 

“Can’t wait to start a grocery store tour.”

“When your boy is hangover but his savage spirit never dies,” Louis retorted, pinching Harry’s nose with affection. Harry smirked at him and scrolled down some more. There was also a considerable flood of messages from friends and acquaintances, most from people who didn’t know about his relationship and were congratulating him. It was a very… peculiar experience. 

“Um, Harry,” Louis said, looking up from his phone. “Zayn told me that Juicy News just updated their article with your name and some... instagram pictures, I guess? They said you’re a photographer based in London.”

“They thought I was a photographer because of my instagram? I’ve never been happier with lazy journalism.”

Louis smiled and lay down beside him. Harry hugged him as a koala, wrapping a leg through Louis’ whole body and fitting his head in the curve of Louis’ neck. The boxer silently stroked his hair, and Harry smelled in the nice mixture of soap and Louis. 

“If things get bad,” Louis hesitantly started as both their mobiles buzzed like crazy, “you have to tell me, okay? You’re only a little bean in the world, but I have professional team behind me who knows what to do.”

“I love it when you remind me that you’re the king of the world. Fucking hot.” 

The boxer snorted, stressing that he was being completely serious until Harry said that he understood and would certainly ask for help if needed. Only after that Louis checked his phone again, scrolling down through Malik’s updates until he said, “There’s a video of you singing Happily in the article as well.”

* * *

The good side was that his social media followers had tripled in a day, with the increase in subscriptions on his youtube channel making him especially happy. The bad side was Harry discovering just how much free time some people had in their hands, taking the time to stalk him and leave tasteless comments throughout his accounts. Nothing that required Louis’ interference, but it still made him sad to know that some people felt such a strong need to be mean.

The real life impact of the news was much lower, considering that nobody seemed to care. After Callahan had resettled his moral compass and concluded that it was perfectly reasonable for Niall to carry an interview for their next edition. He had told Harry, “I hope you lads are happy,” and went on with his day. That was essentially the only time Callahan touched the subject. 

(There was also a remarkable message from Jade in their work group chat saying  _ wait i thought harry was joking when he said he was dating louis???? _ ) 

At yoga, people were too enlightened to even know who Louis Tomlinson was. Still, Harry took the first chance he had to thank Nevenka for the advice she had given all those months ago.

“About you and Ted, right? I’m glad it worked out!” she said with a big smile.

“Yeah, it’s… well, his name isn’t actually Ted, it was just a silly nickname because back then I was so nervous I could barely say it,” Harry confessed, and Nevenka was such an amazing person that she didn’t even judge him, considering completely reasonable to lie about your crush’s name. “It’s Louis. And it’s been great. I’m really happy.”

“I can see that you’ve been much more focused and lighter, and it’s great to hear the reason now.”

“I don’t think I’d have ever done something about it if I hadn’t talked to you, so we owe it all to you, in a sense,” he said, hugging her tightly. 

“Oh, love, you know that life always finds a way. Some souls share such deep connections that they’ll find each other no matter what.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot,” Harry retorted with a smile. “Do you really believe it?”

“I have no doubt in my mind. I’m not saying that everybody has a one and only soul mate who they’re destined to meet, or else they’re fated for unhappiness. It’s… something deeper than that. Sometimes people don’t become lovers, sometimes people go away or die… but they’ve been connected in such way that there’s no breaking it,” Nevenka tried to explain, entangling her fingers together to illustrate what she was saying. 

“When I look at him, I think about fate. Is it too lame or something?”

“No, angel, you’re just happy and in love,” she reassured him, coupling his hands on hers. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the energy silently flow between them, her calm presence soothing Harry’s ever rebelling heart.

* * *

Louis punched the sandbag again and again – a jab, a right cross, an uppercut, or at least Harry thought these were the names for the punches. He still had a long way to go down on the boxing road, and it wasn’t a road he was particularly interested in going too far, but he wanted to learn enough to understand what Louis was doing. Ryan gave him instructions every other punch, “Careful with your stance, don’t let your guard down, rotating your arm this much is a waste of energy, you know Lyndon’s weakness is his right side.”

The boxer rotated from the sandbag to some strength training to taking the ring with Joshua while Ryan tirelessly gave his instructions. Paolo watched from the sideline, by Harry’s side, taking notes down on a laptop and using a software to monitor Louis’ physical performance. Every once in a while he got up and updated Ryan on the results, who then decided if they should change something in their strategy.

“Hey,” Louis greeted him at his first break, sweating like crazy and crouching in front of the desk Harry was using to work.

“Hey,” Harry replied with his most honest smile, caressing Louis’ arms. “You’ve been great.”

“I’ve been a bit shite, actually. Anxiety is starting to get the best of me.” 

It was the last week of March, and things had been hectic. Harry was working at least twelve hours per day, and Louis was training around the same amount. The article about Cooke’s unethical and borderline criminal practices had been published on the printed version of the Overview last Saturday, causing an uproar in the sports world. So far five athletes previously managed by him had shared their own stories, continuing on with what the magazine had started.

On his official Facebook page, Louis had shared the truth behind the day of his match with Timothy Lyndon.  _ I hold myself accountable for accepting what Cooke offered me and not fighting back _ , he wrote under a careful supervision by Malik,  _ but I would never do such thing if the circumstances were different _ .

While Harry was happy that his boyfriend was coming to terms with what had happened, more than ready to turn over a new leaf, he wasn’t sure how much of the message was motivated by a honest wish to share the truth, and how much was motivated by the fact that  _ Never not a fighter  _ started being promoted that same week. In the end, he didn’t care – he was learning very quickly that the life of public people involved a great deal of grey areas, and he was sure that Louis had always the best intention with everything he said and did. 

For the magazine, the publication of the article had thrown them to a spotlight never experienced before. There was a flood of phone calls, emails and messages on all of their social media accounts. Alain was going crazy and sent a desperate message to them, pleading for some help before his fingers fell down from typing frenetically for hours on end. That was the reason for Harry’s increased workload, adding the repercussion from the article with the usual tasks.

The article was spectacularly written. Jesy and Niall’s research work was impeccable, with every piece of information tying the knot and thoroughly explored. The text was crafted in such a way that sounded a bit like a detective story that you just couldn’t put down. Callahan had made this conscious decision in order to bring the reader closer to the story, having tried the method in a few instances before that edition. Harry was proud of his friends and their story. 

Not a single living soul had managed to get hold of Cooke, though. It was as if he had disappeared from the face of earth, uttering no comments even to the outlets that were always friendly with him. Rumour had it that people had started a flood of lawsuits against him, and that there was a possibility that he had fled from England.

One day after the publication, Harry received an email from Julio Calderas. He had to triple check the sender’s name and confirm with Niall that it wasn’t an impersonator fucking with him, that Calderas really took the time to write him an email with the subject  _ I like the work you guys are doing _ . It said,

_ Dear Harry Styles, _

_ I remember when I met you at your workplace, and I remember sensing such a strong energy between you and Louis that I was sure you had something going on even though you didn’t utter a word. _

_ My relationship with Louis wasn’t the easiest thing, but I loved him very dearly. It ended when it had to, and I have no regrets. When my suspicions were confirmed through the media, I felt relieved that Louis had found in himself the strength to be who he is, and happy that he has someone to support him along the way.  _

_ I hope you know that you and your colleagues are fighting the good fight. I wish you all the best. _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Julio Calderas _

Harry had to get up to cry in the bathroom after reading it, and then read it again and again. He had no idea how to respond to it, or what he had done to deserve such nice words, but he felt glad for Calderas’ existence. Glad that, even though Louis had met his fair share of shitty people, there were also amazing ones along the way.

He left the restroom stall red eyed and sniffing, wondering how long it would take for him to look presentable again, only to find a very suspicious-looking Callahan washing his hands in the sink.

* * *

“Don’t forget that you’re the best fighter out there, winning or losing,” Harry assured his boyfriend. 

“I’ve been thinking about getting a new tattoo before the match,” Louis told him, reaching for the water bottle on the desk and drinking it up in two gulps.

“What are you thinking of getting? I can recommend you some artists.”

“A dagger, right here,” Louis pointed to an empty part of his left arm.

“It’d go well with my rose,” Harry joked. 

“See, all the more reasons for me to get it,” Louis said seriously, and the thought of having a complementary tattoo with the boxer made his knees weaken, even though he knew it wasn’t Louis’ original purpose. Louis got up and bended over the desk to kiss him when they heard Ryan coming back to the room. “I think we’ll be over in an hour or so.” 

“I’ll be waiting, I’m still trying to catch up with my emails.” 

It was almost eleven when Ryan called it a day. Harry’s eyes hurt from staring at the laptop screen all day, and he imagined that Louis’ everything hurt from the hard training, each one of them trying to process their exhaustion. The boxer stayed a second more in the ring, carefully taking off his gloves as he tried to catch his breath.

An idea suddenly popped into Harry’s head, then, and he rushed to the ring after checking that his phone had enough battery.

“Hey babe, I know you’re knackered, but could you make a pose for a second?”

Louis looked up with a raised eyebrow.

“I just… I had this idea for a picture,” said Harry. “You can stay exactly where you are and maybe just...” Harry tried to make the pose that was perfectly clear in his mind.

Thankfully Louis indulged him, imitating the pose that Harry was doing. 

“Like this?” he asked.

“Yeah, perfect, don’t move,” Harry pleaded.

“I don’t get your aesthetics sometimes. I’m literally dripping sweat, you could take pictures of me when I look nice and smart, you know.”

“I like the rawness,” Harry retorted, putting his mobile up. The lightning was less than ideal, but they would have to make do. “Ok, just… do the thing again.”

He snapped thirteen pictures just to be safe, and then kissed Louis around the same amount to show how thankful he was. 

“Can I post it on instagram? They look great,” he said, showing the pictures to the boxer.

“Sure love, go ahead.”

“Lads, less making out and more getting ready to go, please,” Joshua interrupted them. “My lady is going to kill me if I’m not back before midnight.”

On his way home, Harry chose his favorite picture and posted it on instagram with the caption  _ Strong _ . 

* * *

“But the thing is, when you’re on pointe, you can’t use much force or else you’ll lose your balance,” Lisa tried using her fingers to get her point across. “And you just have to do it little by little. If you don’t feel confident doing a pirouette on 1/4, of course you’ll fail miserably if you do it on 1/2. It just takes a hell of a lot of practice.”

“I had a horrible instructor, I think that was the problem,” Maya considered, gulping down her beer. “Like, she was more worried about what I was eating than about correcting my movements.”

“I know the type,” Lisa growled, shaking her head full of judgment. “And it’s utter bullocks, if ballerinas just ate what pleased them instead of obsessing over their weight, they would perform much better. But come around next time you’re in London, I can show you some tricks!”

“Heeeey,” Niall’s voice came from the other end of the table, making the ladies look up. “I bring beer,” he unnecessarily announced, putting four pints on the table. 

“How did you manage to carry four pints in a go?” Jade asked in amazement. 

“I’m Irish.”

“You can’t go around giving that answer as if it explains everything, Nialler,” Louis pondered, staring at the pints without moving a muscle.

“It kind of does, though,” Harry retorted, grabbing the second of the two pints he had allowed himself to drink. He didn’t want to get too drunk before playing. 

They were at a popular pub in Soho, taking up an entire corner. When Harry saw on their Facebook page that the pub was looking for a singer to perform on the its fifth anniversary, he decided to give it a go, answering the post and sending them the link of his youtube channel. After his presentation at Maya’s wedding, Harry had some newfound confidence in his abilities, and decided that performing was something that he really enjoyed doing. The pub owner loved it, and asked him to make a set list around an hour long with original and cover songs.

That lead him to two music immersed weeks of hectic work. His friends helped him with the set list, and Niall came over four nights in a row so they could work together on polishing some old compositions. Harry eventually settled for a set list he was happy with, a nice mix of rock, pop and his own songs.

“Perrie said she’s almost here,” Leigh-Anne told them as she came back from the loo.

“We still have half an hour to go,” said Harry, feeling a nervous pinch in his stomach at the reminder. There was a succession of comments of  _ You’ll be great  _ and  _ Don’t worry  _ from his friends, and Louis kissed his cheek just to show how supportive everybody was.

“Is anybody recording it?” Maya asked. “I promised I’d show it to Anne, but I’m not sure my phone can handle a full hour of video.”

“Don’t worry, we have a full professional team,” Jesy reassured her, holding up the camera she had brought to record the presentation. 

“I like it that you managed to find the nicest people in London, Harry,” Maya said with a big smile, reaching over the table to squeeze Harry’s hands.

“I think it helps that none of us was actually born here,” Leigh-Anne pondered, taking a sip from her margarita. 

“What, I was born here and I’m the nicest of them all,” Lisa protested.

Thankfully Perrie arrived at exactly that moment, before they could get into a heated argument about the best region in England (“It’s none,” Niall would certainly whisper into Harry’s ear, if they had got to it.) She squeezed through Lisa, Niall and Maya to sit on the last available chair, complaining about how slow the tube was. 

“Ooh, it’s been such a long time since we were all together,” Jade commented a bit teary-eyed. She wasn’t the best at holding her liquor, and the third drink was starting to get to her. “I love you folks so much. We have to take a selfie,” she decided, grabbing her phone and stretching her arm as much as she could, from her end of the table.

“Ok, I think I’m going to get going,” Harry told Louis after they finally agreed that the seventh selfie was the best one. “See you later,” he murmured against the boxer’s lips, breathing him in for a moment more before getting up. “It’s showtime, folks,” he said to the whole table, high-fiving a very supportive Niall. 

He went to the kitchen to tune the guitar and warm his voice up, and was ready to go when the cook nervously approached him.

“Erm, sorry, you’re the lad who’s playing tonight, right?” he asked, messing with his apron. Harry nodded in agreement. “It’s just that I saw that Louis Tomlinson is with you and I was thinking if it’s okay if I… ask a picture with him or something? After you’ve played, of course. I’m a big fan.”

“Yeah, sure!” Harry agreed with a bright smile, feeling like a proud mama. “What’s your name?”

“Diego.”

“Diego, yeah, I’ll tell him that and he can come here so you guys can chat a bit, what do you think?”

“Brilliant, thank you a lot. I’ve been a boxer fan forever and I even fight a bit myself,” the cook told him, with his eyes sparkling. “And Louis is one of the best out there. Even with everything that happened… it was really unfortunate.”

“Well, it’s over now, though. He’s more than ready to come back,” Harry retorted, waving his hand is a dismissive sign. 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be the new champion in no time,” Diego guaranteed him. “I have to go back to these hamburgers. But thank you again, bro. Good luck with your performance.” 

Harry left the kitchen and after a quick stop in the restroom, to wash his face and repeat one more time to himself that he could do it, went back to the pub and got to the small space used as the stage. Niall spotted him immediately, waving and making a heart with his hand. Harry sent him an air kiss before connecting the cables, breathing in one last time and saying into the microphone, “Hello, I’m Harry Styles.”

Some people didn’t care about who he was, but most stopped their conversations and turned their faces to him.

“Martha and her husband invited me to play here tonight, since the Starcross is celebrating its fifth anniversary,” there was a loud cheer from the crowd and Harry clapped his hands. “I’m very honoured by the opportunity and a bit nervous too, I’m not gonna lie.”

“You’re great, Harry!” Jesy screamed from their table while Louis whistled.

“Ok, so let’s play some music, then,” he mumbled on the microphone, more to himself than to anybody else. The guitar felt heavy on his lap, and he tested the strings one more time before saying, “This first song was written to a man I love very dearly. We met just around a year ago, and I can’t imagine how dull my life would be today if we weren’t together. I’m glad every day to be by his side.” 

He looked at the faces of dozens of strangers who were quietly paying attention to him, buying some time by drinking a gulp of water. Eventually he locked his eyes with Louis, who seemed to be barely blinking.

“This man has been through so much, but he never stopped fighting. He’s a bloody champion, in and out of the rings. So I’d like everybody to give it up to Louis Tomlinson,” he concluded, pointing at the boxer. There was mix of applause, whistles and whispers from the people, the latter probably coming from the ones who hadn’t realised that Louis was even there. Some of the boldest took their phones out to snap pictures, but Harry registered none of it, completely focused on studying the lines in Louis’ face and his reactions.

Louis didn’t move, but his eyes conveyed his thoughts perfectly. 

_ Thank you _ , they said.  _ I love you _ .

“Well, without further ado… this is Fireproof.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story. Then we have the epilogue to go, and that's it! Thank you for those who had stayed so far.


	13. Epilogue

The whole film crew gathered at the Chelsea house to watch _Never Not a Fighter_ premiering on TV. There was beer and popcorn for everybody, and even Ms. Czajka had found the time to join them. Harry snuggled with Louis in a sofa at the back of the room, having perfect vision of the huge screen that had been set up. Liam was sitting beside them, talking to Malik, just as glued to his phone as ever.

At 8 P.M. sharp, the documentary started and they all watched Louis’ story unfold. Harry was filled with nostalgia seeing the older records, of Louis training, Louis in his room, Louis talking about his childhood, his coming out process and everything else. The edition was done in such a way that there were equal amounts of the boxer and the man on screen, and Harry felt really proud to have been part of that project.

It ended with a ten-minute interview conducted by James Corden, which was recorded little over a month before. Louis had already been cleared by the Board Control then, and his confidence glowed through the screen. He ended the interview thanking people for all their support, and saying that his wish now was to have a rematch with Lyndon.

Which he was having in a week. As it had been his team’s plan all along, Louis’ comeback fight would be a fight for the time, once more against Lyndon who had retained the title through two other challenges. Maybe Harry shouldn’t have been surprised when Louis told him about it, as it was a genius marketing strategy, but he was speechless.

“But babe, you’re just… you have been away for a full year while Lyndon has been out there KOing people. You don’t have to do it now, you could…”

“I want to do it now,” Louis retorted, kissing him with fierceness. “I feel completely different from last time. I may not have been in official fights, but I’ve been training harder than ever, I got the support I needed to sort my shit out, and… I want to do this. I want to fight him again, clean and in control, and I want to win.”

“You want to pull a real life Rocky Balboa, right.”

Louis grinned, pulling Harry closer by his waist.

“And you’re going to be there to support me, right Adrian?”

“Only if you shout, _yo Harry, I did it!_ ” Harry gave in with a sigh

“I can’t wait to do that.”

Harry sighed, letting himself be kissed again and shivering as Louis touched the skin under his waistband. He wasn’t keen to sit and watch his boyfriend get punched – that had been difficult enough through videos, let alone in real life –, but there was no way he wouldn’t be there to support Louis every step of the way. Louis guaranteed him that the punches didn’t feel as painful as they looked (he was lying, as Harry found out later on the internet) and that Daniel, his cutman, would fix him up just fine, making his beautiful face look new.

The match was going to take place in Cardiff, and it was completely sold out. Around five thousand people would pack the arena to watch the fights, with Lyndon versus Tomlinson being by far the most anticipated one. On Sunday afternoon, Harry set off to Cardiff, with Niall tagging along as a supportive friend, avid sports fan and journalist covering the event for the Overview.

Niall sang and shared bad jokes along the entire ride, having the clear intention of making Harry relaxed, god bless his little Irish heart. Still, the man felt his whole body shake as they parked in front of the arena and got their credentials, opening their way through the crowd of eager boxing fans. They had already watched the opening acts that day, and were growing impatient as they waited for the main concert.

“This is a bit terrifying,” Harry whispered in Niall’s ear, using his friend’s body to shield himself. The sports world was completely alien to him.

“You’ve clearly never been around hurling fans.”

Louis was already in the locker room when they got there, talking to Joshua and being carefully watched by the rest of his team. They hugged each other so tightly that Harry was breathless, and when they broke apart, Louis spent a long time just looking at his face before saying, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Harry whispered back, feeling for a moment they were all alone. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good. I’m great, yeah, I’m feeling really pumped. Nervous as hell, but pumped.”

 “Remember that no matter what happens, you’re a brilliant boxer and I love you and we’re all proud of you,” Harry reassured him, with their faces still so close that they lips brushed while he spoke.

“I know, love. I’m really fucking glad you’re here. I couldn’t do it without you.”

Their exchange was interrupted by a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder. Paolo excused himself and said he needed to talk to Louis for a moment. Harry waited on the corner of the locker room, chatting with Lottie and Niall while Louis received some last-minute instructions. Liam and Malik were in the press room talking to the media.

It would have looked just like a regular training day at Ryan’s gym if it wasn’t for the loud noise outside.

Eventually, it was time. Ryan politely kicked them all out, and they used the rear exit to go from the locker room to the benches. The energy emanating from the crowd was almost palpable inside the arena, and Harry could understand a bit more why so many people liked to watch fights.

The lights dimmed down, and his heart was beating loud and fast, so full of love and pride because no punches could possibly be stronger than Louis’ will to be there, to build his name up again, to win. His man had been through so much, and yet.

Louis walked down the corridor under a sheer amount of applauses and whistles. Harry could barely see the boxer’s face among all the camera flashes, all the people standing and shouting, including himself.

Harry sat between Niall and Lottie, who had lost most of her voice before the fight even started. Malik joined them, as the presenter wished everybody a great evening again and announced a few sponsors. The publicist held his phone so tightly that his fingers were turning white. Down the ring, he could see both Liam and Ryan talking to Louis, who kept nodding his head. By then, they were probably only sharing words of support, no more fighting strategies.

Louis got up on the ring, jumping up and down to keep his body warm, stretching his arms and punching the air. Ryan put the gumshield on him and squeezed his shoulder. Paolo was behind Louis, apparently relaxing a few knots out of Louis’ back while Joshua stood still with crossed arms, in an intimidating position. Harry couldn’t even blink, thinking about the anxiety building up inside Louis while his own hands were wet and shaky.

“He’s going to be okay,” Niall shouted in his ear, without stopping his cheering. “He’s so ready for this. Look at him, he’s a fucking lion.”

As Harry was about to say that he trusted the boxer one hundred per cent, the presenter’s powerful voice caught his attention.

“But we’re more than ready to see the grand finale for the night, right?” he shouted, and everybody agreed in a loud _yes_. “And this one is worth the belt, fellas! Competing for the WBO Lightweight title we have Louis Tomlinson and the current WBO Lightweight champion Timothy Lyndon.

“Now to introduce the contestants... first we have the challenger, making his comeback after a long year away from the rings… Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing green trunks with white trims, coming from Doncaster here in England… He weighs in nine stones and five pounds… His record is 21 wins and one loss, with nine KOs to his name. He makes his second attempt at the WBO Lightweight world title... here’s the one only Louis ‘The Tommo’ Tomlinson!”

Ryan lifted Louis’ right arm and the boxer waved to the audience with his left hand, opening up what would be a smile if it weren’t for the gumshield. When the people started to quiet down, the announcer introduced Lyndon. The defending champion had an unbeaten record of 30 wins, twelve of those by KO, and zero losses, being the undefeated champion for five fights. He looked relaxed and confident, but didn’t seem to underestimate Louis. That made Harry both worried and proud.

“Now the referee in charge will give you his part of the instructions,” the presenter announced, and the cameras focused on a man bigger than the two fighters.

“Come on lads, you know what I expect,” he said into the microphone, before continuing in one breath, “no punching on the back of the head, give a step back when I tell you to, now touch hands and let’s go.”

The fighters followed the instructions and then stepped into their respective corners, not tearing their eyes apart until the bell rang, announcing the beginning of the first round. For a few seconds, all they did was jumping around, studying each other carefully and calculating how to break down the opponent’s defense.

Before landing the first punch, Louis found Harry’s face in the crowd and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thank you for those who read, commented and enjoyed the story. I hope it was just an entertaining ride for you as it was for me. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> I spent some months last year writing it, and some more this year revising / dwelling on it. Thanks to Dri (@dripepper) for reading and helping me out with the fanfic. The work is complete and I plan on publishing a new chapter per day. I hope it's enjoyable. ♥ If you want to talk, I'm stillwesing on tumblr.


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